A Study in Reason
by May Seward
Summary: A British journalist living in America discovers a 20 year old cold case that occurred in the heart of London. She returns to London and brings the case to the attention of Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Sherlock soon discovers the brilliant reporter is hiding things from him and begins to understand that the case may not have been what brought Clara Lane back to London*Fin
1. Prologue

Prologue

The doorbell rang at one pm that day. There had been nothing interesting on offer for over a week now and the living room wall at 221B Baker Street was going to need re-plastering. Again.

"Ah!" Exclaimed Sherlock Holmes, looking out his living room window. "We have a client, John!"

John Watson looked up from his newspaper long enough to nod.

"Hmm. Good," he nodded before trying to hide his sigh of relief by rustling his paper.

"Sherlock, we've got a young lady to see you," Mrs Hudson came tottering up the stairs. "You boys should really answer your own door." Sherlock ignored her but John winced.

"Sorry, Mrs Hudson," he apologised.

"No problem, dear. I was just going out anyway," Mrs Hudson replied before leaving the flat and heading down the stairs. Now, both resident's attention was directed to the stranger in the room.

"Please, sit," John offered, indicating the chair that was reserved for occasions such as this.

"Thank you," the woman said, sitting in the offered chair.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock asked, steepling his fingers. The young woman raised an eyebrow at him.

"I would have thought that was obvious, Mr Holmes. I have a case for you," she replied, not at all intimidated by the ego in the room.

"Well? Go on then," Sherlock insisted, turning his attention back to his living room and away from the woman.

"On one condition," the stranger stated, with her index finger in the air. "I come along. I want to be part of this investigation, not just the instigator." Now both of Sherlock's eyebrows rose into his hairline. He couldn't decide weather to be intrigued or annoyed by this particular woman.

"And what makes you think I would accept such an... Unprecedented offer?" He asked in a measured voice, keeping his expression and intonation neutral. The woman grinned and leaned forward slightly in the chair.

"Because you are soooo boored," she replied.

"What gave me away?" Sherlock asked, his curiosity piqued. The woman rolled her eyes.

"I don't know if it was the way your eyes can't rest on a single thing in the room for more that a second, which would either suggest you were trying to avoid someone's gaze or you were bored," she told the detective. "Then there's that incessant drumming you're doing on the armrest with your fingers. That either suggests nervousness or boredom." Sherlock looked down at his left hand, which was the one between him and his client. It was still. The woman rolled her eyes. "Not that hand. The other one!" The almost inaudible drumming stopped. This made the stranger smile and she continued. "Again, boredom is the common denominator and your friend isn't showing any signs of nervousness so either it's something he doesn't know about, or boredom. I'm going to go with the latter."

"Not many people would spot things like that," Sherlock mused quietly.

"Yeah, well, I got good at my job by noticing things like that," the client replied. "Clara Lane, investigative journalist." Suddenly, Sherlock wasn't so keen on letting Miss Lane come along.

"Okay... Miss Lane-"

"Clara, please," she requested.

"Clara. What case do you have for us?"

"Where's my guarantee?" Clara asked. Sherlock smirked.

"Shall we say that IF I take the case, you can come with us." Understanding that was the best she would get, Clara nodded.

"Double homicide and suicide happened fourteen years ago in a locked room. Case was closed within two days but I think they missed something."

"Why come to me?" Sherlock asked. "Why not tell the police you have new evidence?"

"Because you're better than the police. They already screwed up this case once." Sherlock cocked his head to the side slightly as a sign of agreement.

"Okay, what did they miss?" Sherlock asked.

"They didn't do a ballistics report. Those days, under the circumstances, maybe they thought they didn't need to. But, I don't think the bullets in the brains of the homocide victims matched the gun in the hand of the suicide."

"And how did you come to this conclusion?"

"The autopsy report said that the bullets removed from the brains of the two homocide victims were a different calibre to the handgun found in the hand of the suicide. It wasn't even from the same type of firearm."

"Interesting. Were there any other firearms found on the scene?"

"No. Just the one handgun."

"You just might have yourself a deal."


	2. Monday, 3rd November, 2014

**Monday, November 3rd, 2014**

After the meeting in which Sherlock Holmes agreed to take my case, I walked out into the crisp London air. It was colder than I was used to for this time of year, but that was to be expected: I had been living in Florida for the past five years. It was so good to be home. I hailed a taxi and gave the address of the hotel that I was staying at - not too far from here, but I'd rather get there quickly. It was freezing standing out on the streets. When I got to my hotel room, I opened the top drawer of my bedside table and pulled out the Folder marked: 'Private Property of Clara Lane' I opened it and began to flick through, adding to notes here and there. Sherlock would probably kill me if he found out what was in here. Returning the folder to its original place, I put the file I'd brought to his house this afternoon on top of it and closed the drawer.

I decided to ring my parents because they didn't know I was here and it would be plain rude not to tell them their only child had returned to England for the fist time since graduating College.

"Hi, mum. It's me." My mother gasped on the other end if the line.

"Penny! How good it is to hear your voice!"

"Mum!" I complained. "You know I hate it when you call me that."

"But it's funny, Pen!" I heard my dad call in the background.

"Dad, please! You gave me a stupid name. Thank God s

Gran stepped in and insisted I have a middle name so I could chose what I am called. Please, just call me Clara? Just for the duration of this phone call?"

"Of course, dear. I'm sorry," my mum giggled. "This must be important. Those overseas rates are dear."

"Actually, mum, I'm in London."

"But that's wonderful! We should come down and see you! How long are you here for?"

"I don't know. It's for a case, I could be here for a few days or weeks. It depends on how long it takes to get what I need."

"So you're going to be busy, then?" My mum asked, sounding slightly crestfallen.

"Oh no. Not all the time," I reassured her quickly. "Maybe, you know, when I know what's going to happen, we could get together."

"Oh, that would be wonderful!" My mum exclaimed. I smiled. My mobile phone vibrated in my pocket. I had a text message.

I checked it and said to my mother, "yeah, it would. Listen mum, I've got to go. I'll ring you later, okay?"

"Okay, love. I love you!"

"Love you too," I replied before hanging up and glancing down at the message again.

 **Baker Street now. Bring all documents you have on case.**

 **SH**

"Do you treat everyone like that or am I special?" I asked as I walked into the flat for the second time that day.

"Like what?" John asked. I showed him the text message and he nodded. "Yep. He does. You get used to it after a while." I gave a derisive laugh.

"And you put up with him. You deserve a medal."

"He's got one," Sherlock told me.

"Oh, that's right! You were a soldier weren't you?" I asked John. He shifted awkwardly but didn't have time to say anything because Sherlock was talking again, reading from a laptop on the table in the living room.

"It says here they did do a ballistics report," he was saying. "It confirmed that the ballistics match that of the gun in the hand of the man who committed suicide."

"Where did you get that information?" I asked, heading in his direction to look over his shoulder. He was reading from the police's secure files. "I knew you were good. I couldn't get in there, my computer hacking skills aren't up to par." Sherlock ignored me.

"This says that the bullet must have been fired from the gun in the dead man's hand and that there were only his fingerprints on the handgun."

"But the bullets wouldn't fit!" I protested.

"Well obviously, they did, because they were fired from that gun," John pointed out.

"Not necessarily," I argued. "How do you fake a ballistics report?" I didn't get an answer. Sherlock suddenly leapt up and bounced into the kitchen, muttering something about silver.

"John! I've got it! I need you to go shopping."

"Now?" John asked, frustrated.

"Yes! I can't start without a few things!"

"Oh, all right!" John grumbled. "What do you want me to get?"

"Just head to the supermarket," Sherlock instructed. "I'll text you the list."

"Do you want me to help?" I asked John but Sherlock interjected before he could speak.

"No, he's fine. I need an assistant." I shrugged and leant against the wall of their kitchen. John left before either of us had noticed.

"So why do you need me?" I asked after a while. Sherlock was busy rummaging through the kitchen looking for cutlery, apparently, because there was a pile of forks, knives and spoons gathering beside his microscope.

"We're going to do an experiment!" He announced.

"Um... Okay... Why do we need so much cutlery?"

"We don't," he said, not even glancing at me. I opened my mouth to ask but he cut across me. "Look at the report," he told me, sounding exasperated at the fact I hadn't caught up to where he was yet.

"What am I looking for?" I asked over my shoulder as I headed to his computer and woke it up. He didn't answer. I read the report through, focussing on the information concerning the bullets that were found embedded in the skulls of the victims. Finally I found what I was looking for.

"That's weird. Silver? Silver bullets? Do they even exist?"

"Evidently," was Sherlock's reply. He was now setting up a Bunsen burner in the middle of the kitchen table.

"Are you sure that's a good idea?" I asked, knowing that my question would be futile. As expected, he ignored me. "What are you doing?" Sherlock was now putting a teaspoon into a beaker that was being held over the white-hot Bunsen flame.

"Separating the sterling silver into it's component metals," Sherlock replied as if it was that most obvious thing in the world. "What was the exact diameter of the bullets found in the victims?" I checked the report.

"Uh... 35.3 mm," I read aloud. Sherlock nodded and went back to focussing on melting the spoon.

"Aren't you going to need to make a mould?" I asked, finally figuring out what he was doing.

"No, you are," he replied.

"And how, exactly, do I go about doing that?"

Ten minutes later, I was walking up to the address Sherlock had given me. It was a pawn shop in a shady part of London. Sherlock had assured me that he would help us. He had written down the specifications of what he wanted on a piece of paper and given it to me.

A bell tinkled as I opened the door and walked inside. Behind the cluttered counter sat a portly old man with long grey hair and a bald patch in the middle of his crown the size of a large saucer.

"How may I help you, miss?" He asked. His voice croaked like a chronic smoker and his yellowed teeth confirmed my suspicions.

"I come on behalf of a..." I searched for the right word, finally settling on, "friend." The man chortled.

"They all do, miss. What's your trouble?"

"He asked me to show you this," I handed the piece of paper to the man across the counter and he looked it over.

"Your 'friend' have a name?" He asked, suddenly business like.

"Sherlock Holmes." The proprietor burst into laughter.

"Well, I never," he giggled. "A friend, is he?" He asked, looking me over in a fatherly way.

"Not really, technically, I'm a client."

"Well, ain't that interesting..." The man mused. "He has clients helping with cases now?"

"We have an arrangement," I told him. "Can I get the stuff he wants now? Only, we're a little busy."

"Right ho, miss. Apologies. I'll get them right away." He disappeared into the back room of the shop and reappeared a few minutes later. "I think you'll find that's everything," he told me, handing me a brown paper bag.

"Thank you."

"Give my best to Sherlock. Tell him to let me know how it goes," the man called after me as I edited the store. I got a taxi back to Baker Street and entered the flat without knocking. Sherlock now had a bubbling liquid in the bottom of his beaker that I assumed was the teaspoon he'd been melting when I left.

"I got the stuff you wanted," I told him as I walked into the kitchen.

"On the table," he instructed.

"What ARE you doing?" Came a voice from the kitchen doorway.

"Ah, John!" Sherlock greeted with a smile.

"He's melting teaspoons," I informed the good doctor.

"What?!" John yelled. "We need those, Sherlock!"

"Did you get the things I wanted?" Was Sherlock's reply.

"Wha- yes," said John.

"Good. You know basic chemistry, don't you, John?"

"Wha- of course, Sherlock. I'm a bloody doctor."

"Good. Then using those test tubes, make a pH scale."

Utterly bewildered, and only suspecting he knew what Sherlock was on about, John set about doing as he was told. Sherlock was now sifting something out of the bubbling liquid in the beaker, leaving just the brilliant white silver behind. "Now set the bag on the table, Clara, and take everything out." I did as I was told, removing a small cardboard box of normal bullets, a bag of plaster, a very small glass funnel and a plastic box marked, 'Gunpowder'. "Make up the plaster. The ratio is equal parts plaster and water," Sherlock ordered.

"Why don't you do it?" I asked grumpily.

"Can't you see I'm busy?" He asked, flattening his hands in the kitchen table-come-science-lab. I rolled my eyes and headed for the sink. John helpfully handed me a large glass bowl to mix the plaster in.

After about ten minutes, the liquid silver in Sherlock's beaker two-thirds full, the plaster moulded and John's pH concoctions finished, we all gathered around the table.

"John," said Sherlock. "Would you mind pouring the silver into the mould?"

"Why can't you do it?" John asked, suddenly suspicious.

"You're a doctor. You have steady hands," Sherlock answered genuinely, looking up at his flat mate from his sitting position. John didn't buy it. Before Sherlock could react, John had pulled up his sleeves.

"I... Forgot to take them off," said Sherlock. John sighed. Three large nicotine patches covered his left forearm.

"Right," I said skeptically. John looked like he was about to shout something. "John? How about we do the task at hand, then you can yell at him later." John nodded and did as instructed. There were fourteen moulds and as each one was filled, they were turned on their open, flat ends and put into the fridge. There was nothing left to do until they had set, apparently, so the three if us just sat around the flat, waiting. John cleaned up some of the mess and I would have helped him but with nothing to do, Sherlock decided that he wanted to figure me out.

"So, what's your real name, Clara?" He asked.

"What?" John and I asked at once.

"Your phone," Sherlock explained. "It's labelled P. C. Lane. What does it stand for?"

"Does it really matter?" I asked. The two Baker Street boys just looked at me. I groaned. "Penelope Clara Lane. And there you have it," I told them over John's fits if hastily stifled giggles. "How did you know I didn't have a relative who's initials are P. C. Who gave it to me?" I asked him coldly.

"That phone has only ever had one owner. It was most certainly a gift, I'd say your salary doesn't allow for those sort of indulgences, judging from your choice of clothes when you met us this afternoon. The jeans had seen better days but were still tidy and the blouse was second hand so the phone doesn't fit the description unless someone gave it to you. As for your initials, it wasn't that hard to figure out that Clara was your middle name, it's more common that you think," he smirked.

After another fifteen minutes, Sherlock had John remove the bullet casings from the fridge. They were perfect, it seemed, the moulds had made sure they were the right shape and size and the way they had been set meant they were still hollow. The three of us filled the casings with gunpowder and before long, they were ready.

"So..." I said. "Now we just need to find a gun they fit and shoot them at something?"

"Well, obviously," was Sherlock's reply.

"So where do we go for that?"

We ended up at a firing range just outside Central London. Sherlock just walked up to the proprietor and had a quick conversation and we were let in.

"The man who owns this place owes me a favour," Sherlock explained as we walked in. It didn't take long for him to find the type of firearm he was looking for. It looked like a sniper rifle. John looked surprised.

"Why are you using that, Sherlock?" He asked.

"It fits," was all Sherlock said, loading the gun and firing without warning. Ears ringing, I scowled at the taller man.

"A little warning wouldn't go a miss next time, Holmes," I told him. He shrugged and loaded again. Ready for it this time, John and I managed to block our ears before he fired again. When all the fourteen rounds had been fired, we climbed over the railing that was supposed to keep people out and Sherlock took a knife out of his pocket and dug our bullets out of the wall. He sniffed disdainfully at them. "Thought so," he muttered.

On the police report I had seen photos of the bullets taken from the victims. They had been crumpled, but not as bad as the one now in Sherlock's hand.

"Back to the drawing board then?" I asked cheerfully.

When we arrived back at Baker Street it was dark and I was starving so I took my leave and headed back to my hotel room.

 _Logging on to her computer, Clara opened her browser and began to look for the closest library. Once she had found it, she wrote the address on her forearm so it would be covered by her sleeve and decided to call it a night. This case was certainly proving interesting._


	3. Tuesday, 4th November, 2014

**A/N: Something went wrong with the formatting in this chapter for some reason. Hopefully I have fixed the problem. Sorry for that, guys. Thanks to the reviewer unnamed and unimportant who brought this to my attention. Enjoy!**

* * *

Tuesday, November 4th, 2014

I woke up the next morning to a text from Sherlock.

 **Figured it out. Come to Baker Street.**

 **SH**

When I arrived, Sherlock and John were in the kitchen, as expected. John was making tea and Sherlock was sitting, eyes closed, deep in thought.

"Ah, Clara, do sit down," he said, eyes still closed, when I walked in. Feeling bewildered, I did as instructed and waited. John cave me a cup of tea, which I accepted gratefully.

"You told me you'd figured something out?" I asked after a minute of silence. Sherlock snapped out if his reverie and opened his eyes.

"Yes, well. As we saw yesterday, the silver bullets just wouldn't work because the silver wasn't hard enough to withstand the force created by the air resistance. But the bullets found in the victims were definitely silver and weren't looked into very thoroughly. So, how did they get the silver bullets to work well enough to kill three people?" I shook my head, indicating I didn't know. Sherlock rose and went to the fridge, returning with a tray of silver bullets.

"And these ones work?" I asked.

"He woke me up with them this morning," John confirmed.

"Once I figured out how it was done, it became clear the size of the bullets didn't matter. These are not silver bullets," Sherlock informed us.

"Then what are they?" I asked.

"These are normal bullets with a silver coating."

"Oh, of course," I said as realisation dawned on my still sleep addled brain. "That actually makes sense." Then another question popped into my head. "So why coat them in silver in the first place? I mean, why bother?" Sherlock smiled.

"Now we're asking the right questions," he said. "To answer that particular question, we must look at the motive, which is almost impossible without knowing the suspects."

"So that's what we're going to do today?" I asked. "Interview people who knew the victims or who may have heard or seen anything."

"Exactly."

Half an hour later, with a list in my hand, the three of us stepped out of a taxi onto the pavement in front of a unsuspecting London flat.

"So who are we talking to first?" John asked.

"Lynn Bardsley. Alec Bardsley's wife," I answered.

"Which one was Alec Bardsley?" John asked.

"He was one of the ones who were definitely murdered," I answered. I walked in front of the two boys and knocked on the door. After a few seconds it was opened by a young teenage girl. "Hello," I said. "Is Lynn here?"

"Mum!" The girl yelled over her shoulder. A woman in her early forties appeared behind her.

"Thank you, Josie," she said kindly. "I'll take it from here." The girl left. "And who are you?" She asked.

"Hi, I'm Clara Lane. I'm a journalist working on a story on high profile crimes of last decade. We were wondering if you'd be interested in an interview-" the door was about to be slammed in my face but I stuck my foot in the gap. "Wait! We're here because we think the police got it wrong!" The door was opening again.

"What would you know about my husband's death?" Lynn asked slowly.

"I've been reviewing the police reports and photos and other documents regarding your husband's case and there are a number of things that don't add up." I could hear Sherlock shifting impatiently behind me but I ignored him.

"I knew it," Lynn breathed.

"Can we come in?" I asked, now that we held her attention. She stepped back to let us through.

"Hang on," she interrupted as Sherlock and John made to enter behind me. "Who are these two?"

"Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective," Sherlock answered. "And Dr. John Watson." Lynn's eyes widened.

"Oh, of course. I didn't recognise you without the hat," she tittered. Sherlock bristled but made no comment. John laughed. We entered the living room and settled ourselves on the white leather sofa. "So what do you need to know?"

"Tell me about your husband, Alec Bardsley," Sherlock said. Lynn looked a little lost.

"Uh... Well, he was a businessman. Before we met he would travel all the time for meetings. But all that stopped after we got married. He was a good man and he... Listen, I loved my husband very much. If that bastard who killed him hadn't put a bullet in his own brain..."

"Yes, thank you. Do you know - or suspect- there might have been anyone who would want to kill your husband and the two other men he was found with?" I asked. Lynn thought for a moment before shaking her head.

"I'm sorry, no. I don't think so. It was all so long ago now I..." She took a deep breath. "Was there anything else or..?"

"No, thank you. We have all we need for now," Sherlock answered.

"We'll let you know if we need to talk to you again. Thank you," I told her. She showed us out and we left.

The next stop was the wife for the second homicide victim.

She was an interesting character. When we arrived at the door and knocked she was the one who answered the door.

"Hi," I greeted. "Are you Ms Tara Argyris?" The woman's eyes narrowed at the sound of the name.

"I'm sorry, you must be in the wrong time zone," she said cooly. "The name is Tara Webb now."

"Apologies," I said humbly. "We wish to talk to you about your late husband, Daniel Argyris."

"Who are you?" She asked suspiciously.

"My name is Clara Lane. I'm a psychologist doing a study on how trauma affects behaviour years later. This is Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. They're consulting with me on this particular case. We just want to do a very quick interview, that's all."

"No, I'm sorry, I'm very busy right now."

"Oh, I'm sure," said Sherlock. "Is it your husband watching the television or is it the kids?" The question was so out of the blue it caught her off guard and she answered.

"It's my children," she answered.

"So your not busy. Is your husband still asleep or has he actually gone to work today?"

"I... He's at work. I don't know what you're insinuating though!" Tara looked like she was going to continue but Sherlock cut her off.

"They're very young aren't they, Mrs Webb? Probably too young to be left alone for long with Lego littering the floor?" Tara gasped and hurried inside. She hurried to her children and started putting the small blocks away, pulling some from their tiny hands and checking their mouths for bits she may have missed. Meanwhile, we had crept over the threshold and were waiting in the hall. She saw us and sighed.

"Well you'd better come in then," she grumbled. Sherlock smirked and I stifled a laugh. We settled around the kitchen table so Mrs. Webb would have a clear view of the living room and her children.

"I'm just going to ask you a few questions, Mrs Webb, is that okay?" I asked. She nodded gruffly. "Thank you. Can you describe your late husband, Daniel Argyris for me?"

"Danny... He was a good man. He loved his business and his money - sometimes more than me, I thought - but... He never should have been in that room, Miss Lane, he shouldn't've been there! I didn't know what to think when he was killed I..." She shuddered, her breathing ragged before it calmed again and she was suddenly normal. "It was a long time ago now. I prefer not to think about it. I never liked dwelling on the past, it's not good for you."

"Thank you, Mrs Webb. I think that will be all for now. We'll be back again if we think we need anything else," I told her, recognising that she was probably about to throw us out.

We left rather hurriedly and ended up back at Baker Street. I complained that I was hungry so we decided (well, John and I decided and we dragged Sherlock) that we should go to Speedy's and have some lunch. Once we had ordered, conversation turned to the case.

"So, any theories?" I asked the boys.

"Do you know what's interesting?" Sherlock murmured.

"No, that's why we have you," answered John.

"The name if the second victim... Daniel Argyris..." I thought for a moment.

"Is it... Greek?" I asked. "The victim had Greek heritage, didn't he?" Sherlock shook his head.

"Yes, but that's not the point. Argyris. The word Argyris is the Greek word for silver."

"Oh, of course," I said. "I learned about that in high school chemistry. It's why the symbol for silver on the periodic table is Ag."

"So where does this lead then, hmm?" John asked.

"I... I need to think," said Sherlock. "I don't think we'll be doing much more today." Feeling thoroughly dismissed, I ate my lunch quickly and left, my head tumbling over possibilities.

 _Once back in her hotel room, Clara decided to do some work on her other project. The real reason why she was back in London. The Holmes family have a long and frightening history, and this generation were by far the most devious. Oh, for sure Mycroft Holmes knew just how to evade the course of justice and, as has been proved from her investigation, it started very young._


	4. Wednesday, 5th November, 2014

**Wednesday, November 5th, 2014**

I went over to Baker Street at nearly midday today after receiving no word from either of the boys.

John, it seemed was out and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen but the evidence suggested he was still in the flat. So, while I was waiting for one of them to appear, I took a proper look around. I knew Sherlock was the main decorator - if he could be called that - because John had only moved back in recently so I decided to see what I could glean from the surroundings. The mess in both the kitchen and living room seemed to be a normal thing because it was like that when I had my first visit so I was fairly confident that it could tell me practically anything I wanted to know. I already knew that Sherlock Holmes fancied himself a scientist - and he was very good at it - that much was evident at a glance. He didn't have any photos around the public areas of anyone so it was safe to assume he wasn't on good terms with his family - pretty understandable from what I knew already. The way things seemed tossed about told me he was bored incredibly easily and the skull painting on the wall and the real one on the mantelpiece clearly told me he was unperturbed by what others would deem 'macabre'. Of course, all of this I knew already, but it was good to confirm it. It would come in handy for my other case very soon. I moved to his bookshelf and started examining titles. There were medical textbooks in Latin, history books on crime in 18th century London, books on human psychology and -

"Stop it." I leapt away from the book case in surprise.

"Stop what?" I asked casually.

"Trying to read me," he answered, leaning against the doorframe, eyes dancing over and around the room.

"I was trying to read you book titles," I told him matter-of-factly.

"I know."

"Why didn't you text me? I thought we had stuff to do today," I asked suddenly.

"I wanted to see how long it took you to come of your own accord. I have to say, you're very keen." We were silent for a moment, sizing each other up, analysing each other's motives. I broke the silence first. I had wanted to unsettle him slightly - I'm still not sure why - and get some answers at the same time.

"Why don't you have any photos of your family?" I asked him. He rolled his eyes but the gesture was lost because his face was now looking at me in a new way. He was almost... Curious.

"They're boring. All boring."

"Except Mycroft to whom you don't speak except when necessary and whichever parent you got your genius from."

"Oh, no," he said, face lighting up in amusement. "My mother is boring too."

"Let me guess, she's a genius who knits." Sherlock paused.

"If you like," he replied slowly.

"My dad's like that. He's really brilliant but he watches telly all day. He's especially boring because he so smart but he does nothing with it," I told Sherlock. "Unlike you. You would be just as boring as everyone else if you didn't do what you do."

"You think intelligence is a good thing?"

"Don't you?"

"Oh, of course, but that's not the point. You think your dad is boring BECAUSE he's smart and does nothing with it."

"Isn't that why you think your mother is boring?" I asked, genuinely curious.

"Intelligent people can be boring for reasons other than righteousness," he drawled.

"Righteousness?!" I asked, taken aback.

"Of course. You don't find your father boring. You resent him for not using his brain when you have to every day. You want to be ordinary."

"I would be nothing and nowhere with out my smarts!" I told him sharply. "I honestly don't know how he can do nothing with himself all day and still be happy. With his brain, it's a wonder he doesn't get bored!"

"See?" Sherlock's face was looking unbearably smug. I scowled.

"Oh, stop it," I growled.

"Stop what?" Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Reading me."

When John returned, we decided to talk to the brother of the apparent suicide victim from our case. It took us more out of the way than the others but we were still within hailing distance of a taxi ride back to Baker Street.

It took a few minutes for him to answer the door, but it did eventually. A man who looked in his early forties with shoulder length curly blonde hair opened the door. He was wearing gardening gloves and the knees of his baggy jeans were black with soil.

"Hi, are you Niklaas Koemans?" I asked. The man nodded. "I'm Clara Lane. I was wondering if we could talk to you about your brother?" The man's brows furrowed.

"Are you with the police?" He asked. I opened my mouth, unsure weather to reply or not but Sherlock beat me to it.

"Yes. Sort of," he said, pushing past me so the man could see him.

"Is Sven in trouble?" He asked urgently.

"Sven? No. We're here to talk about your other brother," I told him, the first to guess what was going on. The farmer's face darkened.

"I don't have a brother," he said darkly.

"You didn't have a brother named Andrew Chapman who was found dead fourteen years ago?" I asked innocently. The man gave a derisive laugh but let us through.

"He was born Vincent Koemans," he said bitterly. "But when we came to England he felt left out, you know? Like he didn't belong. We told him, 'Vince, you have us! Your brothers and a mama and papa who love you. You don't have to be like them. You're special,' but he didn't listen. When he left school and got a job as a clerk at some big company he changed his name officially to Andrew Chapman. We were never good enough for Vince. He always wanted something different, something more from us. We were poor. Vince didn't want to be poor. We were happy. Vince wasn't."

"Do you think he could have committed murder?" I asked.

"Don't ask that! Anyone can commit murder," Sherlock hissed at me so no one else could hear. I raised my eyebrows but shrugged and altered my question.

"Do you think he was inclined to commit murder?" Niklaas shook his head.

"My brother was a fool. Ambitious and depressed at times, but he wasn't a murderer. He wasn't..." Niklaas paused, remembering. "Sven took Vince's death hard. 'He was framed!' He'd say. 'Vince wouldn't do that to anyone!' Nobody would believe him though. He was only nineteen. He was younger than Vince by about eight years and he hadn't seen much of him for a long while before the... Incident. Vince always liked Sven better than I, though. Although, he hardly ever showed it. He had... Contempt for his family, but least of all Sven." Sherlock frowned, thinking as Niklaas continued. "You don't think he did it, do you? That's why you're here!" He said suddenly. John and I nodded.

"We're looking into it," promised John.

"Too many things just don't add up," I told Niklaas. He nodded.

"That's what we said," he sighed.

"Well," said Sherlock, coming out of his reverie. "We should be off. You've been very helpful." He started pulling John towards the door. Smirking, I followed, thanking Niklaas again for his time. The three of us walked towards the main road.

"Uh... Any reason for our hasty exit?" John asked Sherlock. I had a sneaking suspicion but I wasn't going to voice it.

"Hey, Sherlock! Are we going to be doing anything else important today?" I asked. "Only, I have things I need to do."

"Fine," Sherlock grunted. We reached the main road and hailed a taxi.

"Cheers. Text me if you need me or anything important happens." Sherlock and John climbed into the cab and was gone without a word. I shrugged, still contemplating the interview we'd just had with Mr. Koemans. I hailed another taxi and headed towards the library.

 _"Sherlock, are you okay?" John asked his friend once they'd left Clara on the pavement._

 _"Fine. I'm fine," was Sherlock's gruff reply._

 _"No. I know that face. It's your I-just-remembered-something-important-but-I'm-not-going-to-tell-anyone face." Sherlock sighed._

 _"This was an important case, John. When it happened. It has been... On my mind since Clara brought it to us because I can't remember it. I should remember it but I don't."_

 _John frowned. "Okay... That is a little weird but I'm guessing you just figured out why?" Sherlock nodded._

 _"I don't remember it because I was in America."_


	5. Thursday, 6th November, 2014

**Thursday, November 6th, 2014**

Sherlock texted me this time. I woke up from a dream at seven in the morning and decided there wasn't any point in trying to get more sleep. Yawning, I turned on my phone and within a minute it was vibrating.

 **Baker Street. Now.**

 **SH**

When I got there, John and Sherlock were waiting for me.

"What is it?" I asked, taking a sip of my coffee. "You wanted me here?"

"I have to admit, I wasn't expecting you this early," said Sherlock. He was sitting in his chair, fully dressed and looking more alert than was decent at half past seven in the morning.

"Did you actually sleep at all last night?" I asked, realising he hadn't changed his clothes from yesterday.

"I was busy," he replied. "Were you followed?"

"I- what?" He was so calm it was unnerving.

"I said, 'Were. You. Followed?'"

"I... Don't think so," I replied, settling myself on the sofa. "Was I?" I asked thinking he'd probably know.

"You were followed to your hotel yesterday from the library. What were you looking up that grabbed someone's attention?" I frowned, wondering how much I could say without him noticing I was holding back and concentrating on acting normally.

"I didn't get any books out," I answered.

"Who are you?" Sherlock asked, studying me closely.

"Clara Lane," I replied. "You know that already."

"Ah, but a person is so much more than a name," he countered. Sensing a philosophical-like debate brewing, I changed the subject. I wasn't going to embarrass myself by taking on Sherlock Holmes.

"What have you got on the case?" I asked.

"We had a chat with Chapman's brother Sven," replied John.

"And?" I asked, feeling rather annoyed they didn't invite me.

"And he said pretty much the same as the other one," John admitted.

"So we need to focus on the three victims properly, now," I mused. "What connected them? Why were they where they were when they were murdered? Why would someone want to kill all three?"

"Did the murderer want to kill all three?" John asked. "I mean," he clarified. "What if one got caught in the crossfire?"

"And just happened to get shot between the eyes or fall on the barrel of a gun with their mouth open just as someone pulls the trigger?" Sherlock asked, unimpressed with John's logic. "I need to see the actual crime scene," Sherlock muttered, standing and pulling on his coat. "Come on, John! We're going to Guillory Tower."

I followed the boys into the cab before either could protest - not that they would. It didn't take too long until we arrived. Guillory Tower was fairly small compared to some of the other towers in London but it was still tall enough to draw your eyes all the way to the top of the glass box, some forty stories above the streets. Workers were entering through the double doors at the entrance, drinking coffees or pulling their coats closer to themselves trying to stave off the early morning chill.

"How are we going to do this then," I asked, watching as every person who walked into the building was checked by security. Sherlock looked around, I could see him analyse every person, work out every probability. After a minute, Sherlock snapped to attention.

"Here's the plan. Clara, you talk to the security guard closest to the right side if the building. It's his first day here so you should be able to convince him you're the PA of the man in the foyer who's snarling at his coffee. You are also new so if things escalate and the guard calls his supervisor you should be able to bluff your way out long enough for John and I to get inside and downstairs. John and I will slip through while you distract the guard."

"Uh, why?" I asked. Sherlock turned his considered gaze on me but he looked confused.

"Why what?" He asked mildly.

"Why can't we just walk in and ask to see the basement?" Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"So promising," he muttered sarcastically under his breath. Louder, he said, "one, because they have no reason to, two, because of my... Reputation I won't be welcome somewhere like here - these sorts of people are very picky about who they're seen being civil and as... Companions of mine you won't be welcomed either. Finally, that would be no fun." I laughed out loud. "We better hurry. We've been stationary for too long as it is."

"Okay, fine. Let's do this." As per Sherlock's plan, I went first, talking to the guard. "Hello," I said. "You're new here aren't you? Me too. Listen, I've... Kinda forgotten which floor my boss works on. Could you tell me so I don't cause a scene?" I winced in pretend embarrassment. The guard looked me over disapprovingly.

"Sorry, miss. Ask at reception. They may be able to help you but you'll have to show ID." I could see Sherlock and John in the corner of my eye dissapearing around a corner and out of sight.

"Thank you. I will," I said, racing to catch up with the boys.

The rest was a piece of cake. We headed down to the basement floor in the lift and it didn't take us long to find the right room. It was locked, but that was no obstacle to Sherlock. John looked a little uncomfortable with picking the lock but it made me laugh. Once inside, we wasted no time.

"We have approximately," Sherlock checked his watch. "Twelve minutes until security arrive to evict us from the premises."

"Better be quick, then," I said cheerfully. Sherlock gave me a rueful smile.

"You underestimate me, Miss Lane," he said.

"I really don't," I replied, turning and walking towards the wall behind me. It was piled high with cardboard boxes so I began to remove them, running my hands along the rough concrete as I did so.

"Clara," said John. "Come here." I turned back to face the middle of the room again to see Sherlock walking around with his eyes tightly closed, waving his hands about and muttering to himself. Then he started talking to us properly.

"John," he said, eyes still closed. "Stand right... Here." He grabbed John's shoulders and manoeuvred him until he shuffled sideways slightly. "You are now Daniel Argyris," he told John. "Stay right there." He moved towards me, eyes still screwed shut. "Clara, take a few steps to your right." I did as I was told, having figured out what this exercise was for. "Now one step forward." I stepped forward. "Ah... A bit more," he instructed. I obeyed. He shifted me slightly and then moved to the corner of the room opposite me. "You are now Andrew Chapman," he told me.

"So we're standing exactly where the victims were standing when they were killed?" I queried. Sherlock nodded.

"How did you figure that out?" John asked. I wondered how he could still be surprised when it came to Sherlock's methods and accuracy, having known him for years. Then I realised he was actually surprised I understood what Sherlock was doing before he did.

"Think about it," I explained when Sherlock closed his eyes again and stayed silent. "He just put our feet where the victim's feet were when they were found. In the photos they were all on their fronts which means that a few couple of centimetres behind where they were lying was where they were standing before they fell with a bullet in their brain. If they were lying on their backs we'd be a few centimetres in front of where they were found. He's trying to work out angles."

"Shh!" Sherlock hissed. After another second, his eyebrows rose and a smile graced his lips. "Over there," he pointed towards the wall to my left. It too was covered in boxes. John walked towards it and started shifting boxes.

"How much time have we got?" I asked Sherlock.

"Four and a half minutes," he answered in voice that was lower than usual.

"Okay, so we need to get out of here," I said. I didn't fancy getting arrested. I glanced up at what John was doing and Sherlock and I shouted at the same time, "There!"

The three of us took a closer look at the wall. At the very top, inches before the wall met the ceiling, was a small rectangular ventilation hole. I got up close and had a look to see what was on the other side. I could see a stretch of asphalt and the bottom of the tires of a few cars. A car park. It had bars running vertically along it, but Sherlock and I were already thinking the same thing: the gaps between them were the perfect size for the barrel of a gun. "Sherlock, are we done here?" I asked urgently, aware of time running out.

"What? Yes, let's go."

Without another word, the three of us left the room and closed the door, heading for the lift. Once on the ground floor, we walked purposefully towards the glass doors of Guillory Tower and out onto the paved area in front of the building and out into the street.

Walking down the road, Clara started to giggle which earned an alarmed look from Sherlock and John.

"What?" she asked, grinning. "We're so close! It's only a matter of time before we catch the real culprit."

"Yeah," said John. "But why are you laughing?" He asked, looking her over for anything medically wrong that could have caused her unusually exuberant mood.

"I just realised how sad my life is," she replied, trying to keep a straight face. Realising this needed more explanation, she added, "I just realised that these past few days have been the most fun I've had in months."

"I know," Sherlock agreed, a small smile playing on his lips. "Wait- why does that make your life sad?" he asked. John and Clara just sent him identical looks that plainly stated, _Really, Sherlock?_ Sherlock's brows furrowed and he hailed a taxi to take them back to Baker Street.


	6. Friday, 7th November, 2014

**Friday, November 7th, 2014**

Yesterday was a long one. After heading back to Baker Street, Sherlock settled himself into his chair, closed his eyes and didn't say a word for half an hour. Figuring he was going to be a while, John and I went out for breakfast as it wasn't even nine o'clock yet. When we returned, Sherlock was pacing the living room.

"Cracked it, yet?" I asked as a way to announce our return. Sherlock just grunted so we left him alone.

With Sherlock doing his thing, John and I decided to do our own version.

"So, that hole opens onto a car park at the back of the building at ground level," John clarified. I nodded.

"So that will be how they did it." We paused as Sherlock's bedroom door slammed. He'd migrated there for the silence, obviously. "Now we just need to figure out who. You served in the Army, so you should know what sort of weapon was used and guess what sort of person used it?" I asked hopefully. John thought for a moment.

"The shooter would have been ten metres away from any of the victims and at an odd angle so... Unless they had training or were an excellent shot, I'd say that the weapon was a rifle or a firearm with a sight attached."

"Hmm..." I hummed. "Okay, let's think about motive. First of all, why were the victims in there in the first place?"

"A meeting?" John suggested.

"So what about? None of the reports done by the police or ourselves have indicated that the victims knew each other," I countered.

"That doesn't mean they didn't," John pointed out. "Maybe there was something shady going on at work - at Guillory Tower - and they were in on it."

"None of the victims actually worked at any of he firms that are residents of Guillory Tower," I sighed.

"So why were they there?" John asked. I was silent.

"They hired the room," Sherlock's voice yelled from down the hallway. John and I stifled a laugh.

"Okay, so why?" I asked, loud enough for Sherlock to hear but not actually directing the question at him.

"Maybe they stored something there?" John suggested.

"Did you see what was in those boxes?" I asked. John shook his head.

"Not really," he said. "But it felt like a boat load of paper.

"If they were into anything shady they wouldn't hire a basement room to store the records. If they were any sort of smart, they would keep as little records as possible."

"So..."

"A meeting is more likely," I finished. "So what was it about?" John thought but Sherlock had reappeared.

"Online dating," he said. John and I just looked uncomprehendingly up at him. "You know," Sherlock continued with a roll of his eyes when he saw we didn't get it. "You 'meet' online and after a while, you decide to meet up for real." John still wasn't getting it.

"So... It was a... Thr-"

"No, John. It was a scam. That's why Chapman or Koemans or whatever his name is had the gun," I interrupted with a chuckle. "Is that right, Sherlock?" He didn't answer, he was staring at the smiley face on the wall.

"Sherlock?"

"I know, I know, it's a money laundering scam. I got that," he said dismissively. John and I looked at him.

"It is?" John asked.

"Well," said Sherlock, tuning back into the world around him. "Yeah, I mean, isn't it obvious?"

"No," John and I answered in unison.

"Think back to the crime scene. It was a small room with no chairs or a table or any kind of furniture and the boxes weren't there fourteen years ago, so it wasn't going to be a long meeting. Chapman brought a gun so he was either planning to murder the other two or it was in self defence because he had never met the other two before. You know, just in case it went wrong. The wives of the two married victims both separately described their husbands as business men and we know Alec Bardsley travelled a lot according to his wife before they married but he stopped afterwards so they had a lot of money. Combine those two facts you have an CEO or a board member both are very influential and have access to high places. The same goes with Daniel Argyris. Chapman wasn't a business man - not yet - but he was ambitious. He changed his name, everything so he would have a better chance at going higher than a temp in the business world but to do that, he needed more money than was coming in. So, either Bardsley or Argyris or someone else involved in their scam finds Chapman and gets him to become a launderer in return for a few leg ups and pay rises."

"Why money laundering though. Why not something else?" I asked.

"I've been reading old newspapers from that year," Sherlock explained. "A couple or articles have described small thefts from accounts with large bank balances. Siphoning money from one account into another which would require someone in power to look the other way."

"And you think they're connected?" John asked.

"It makes sense," Sherlock replied.

"Why don't we get New Scotland Yard onto it?" I suggested. "They could track the movements of money from one account to the other and provide some sort of proof."

"From fourteen years ago?" John asked. "Can they really do that?"

"We could see at least," I tried.

"No, we shouldn't bother," Sherlock insisted. "The case is closed. They wouldn't bother reopening it without proper evidence and if they did find something, they'd take it over and that would be the last we see until they mess it up again."

"Okay, so how do we find out if we are right?" I asked.

"I wonder..."

"What? What is it Sherlock?"

"Does Niklaas Koemans like hunting?"

When Sherlock ran off again, we followed him into a taxi which took us to Niklaas Koemans' cottage. He opened the door as soon as we knocked.

"Hello?" He asked. His Dutch accent seemed more apparent than last time.

"Hi, Mr Koemans, can we come in?" I asked. He nodded and let us step through. We entered the kitchen. At the table sat a mousy haired youth that I assumed was Niklaas' brother Sven.

"Mr Holmes!" Sven exclaimed, jumping to his feet and jostling the table. "Have you found out who killed my brother yet?" Sherlock neither confirmed nor denied the question.

"I have a few more questions for you," he told them.

"Ask away, Mr Holmes," said Niklaas.

"Mr Koemans, do you have any livestock on the property?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes, a goat and six chickens," Niklaas answered.

"Do you send any for slaughter?" Sherlock questioned. Niklaas shook his head.

"None. The chickens lay eggs and the goat provides milk. I would not kill them." Sherlock frowned.

"Do you do any hunting?" He asked. Niklaas shook his head.

"I am a vegetarian."

"Do you have any firearms on the property?" Sherlock asked, sounding disappointed. Niklaas shook his head.

"Me Holmes, sir!" Sven exclaimed. "You cannot think my brother has anything to do with my brother's death!"

"No," Sherlock replied. "I was just ruling out possibilities." He swept out the door, coat flapping behind him.

"Thank you, very much, for your time," John said before we both followed Sherlock out of the cottage.

Sherlock was in a bad mood.

"But... It made sense!" He was growling.

"Sherlock, what is going on?" I asked, running to catch up with his long strides.

"I saw something that made me think he was a hunter. I know he did!"

"Where? Are you sure you're not getting your suspects confused?" John asked.

"Vegetarian," Sherlock was now muttering. "How did I not see that?"

"Sherlock, stop," I ordered, grabbing his arm so he spun to face John and I. His brow was furrowed and his eyes were fiery, it didn't take himself to see he'd gotten worked up and frustrated about the case. "Listen," I told him. "Think. What was it that made you think 'hunting'?" Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Skin. There was a bear skin rug," he said.

"You can buy those," I pointed out. "You know that, why did you think 'hunting'?"

"Photos. Photos of a man hunting!"

"One of the victims?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"Who?" Sherlock didn't answer.

"Where?" I asked. "Where did you see the photos?"

"Uh..." Sherlock screwed his eyes closed even tighter.

"Were they framed?" I asked. He nodded. I closed my eyes too and tried to sift through my memory, trying to find any recent pictures I'd seen that matched Sherlock's description.

"OH!" Sherlock and I shouted at the same time, making John jump.

"It's creepy how you do that," the mumbled. I smiled and Sherlock hailed a taxi.

For half an hour we didn't say a word. I tried to tell Sherlock that it was useless trying to visit anyone at home as everyone would be at work but he had insisted. I knocked on the door when we arrived.

"Sherlock," John said. "Let's try later. No one's home." Sherlock shushed him. To The surprise of John and I, at that moment the door was opened.

"Mrs Webb," I greeted, smiling sweetly. "May we come in?"

Once we had been let in to the house Sherlock went into battles mode.

"Call your husband," he demanded. "Now."

"Why?" She asked, suspiciously.

"Because if you don't I will call the police." Tara Webb's eyes widened and she dropped the cup she was holding into the sink with a clatter. Fumbling, she reached for the phone. Sherlock smiled. It was the sort of smile that marred his handsome features. The smile of a predator. "Tell him to take the day off and come home early. Tell him it's a matter of life or death," he ordered. Tara obeyed. Twenty minutes later the door to the house opened and he husband entered the house.

"Tara?" He called. "Are you okay?"

"Malcolm, honey," said Tara shakily. "This is Clara Lane, Dr John Watson and Sherlock Holmes. They er... They've come about Daniel." Malcolm Webb swore.

"Why are you here?" He walked forwards. He was a large man, and looked like he would beat both Sherlock and John hands down if it came to a fight. He wore a suit but was bald. If I had to guess, I'd've said he was a security guard for somewhere important.

"I want to know what happened to Daniel Argyris and the two men he was with when he was murdered," Sherlock answered, stepping forwards as well.

"That bloke copped him and then copped himself. That's what happened, Mr Holmes," Malcolm's voice dripped with authority and the conviction of a man who was hiding something.

Sherlock didn't seem perturbed. On the contrary, he matched Malcolm's tone perfectly when he replied, "are you threatening me, Mr Webb?" Malcolm sneered.

"Do you feel threatened?" He asked maliciously. With lightening speed, Sherlock had kicked Malcolm in the chest and stabbed the tips of his fingers under the chin where Malcolm's head met his neck. Tara screamed and Sherlock wrenched Malcolm's arm behind his back. For a moment Sherlock's face betrayed the relish he felt and the enjoyment he was obviously feeling at the larger man's discomfort.

"Are you?" He asked Malcolm Webb, getting the final word.

"Sherlock," John warned. Sherlock just sent him a 'really?' Look so I assumed this wasn't a totally rare performance. John shrugged and I swore I saw a tiny grin appear on his face before an impassive mask slipped back on.

"Let him up! Please?" Tara begged. Sherlock sighed and let Malcolm off the floor.

"Your children arrive home from school in little under two and a half hours," he told the Webbs. "You'll want to get this over with well before then."

"What do you want?" Tara asked.

"The truth Mrs Webb, that's it really. Although I'm sure my two friends here will want to call the police once we're done talking. Sorry, can't do anything about that, I'm afraid. Just too busy," Sherlock said, dusting off his coat and tugging at it so it was flat again and the collar stood up like he always has it. I pulled a notebook out of my bag and started taking notes.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked, completely caught off guard.

"Taking notes," I told him. "Isn't it obvious?"

"You've never done it before," said Sherlock.

"Yeah, well. If someone's about to confess something I want it done properly. It's not really official unless it's taken down right now. Editors just don't accept anything that quotes from memory. Don't trust it, see?"

"So why have you only started now?"

"Oh, I have an eidetic memory. Well, almost." Sherlock's brows furrowed but he shook his head, a bemused look on his face before turning back to the irate married couple.

"Mrs Webb," Sherlock said, businesslike one again. "Tell me, when did you meet... Malcolm?" He said The name like it tasted bad on his tongue.

"Six-sixteen years ago." Sherlock's eyebrows rose.

"So he met your first husband?" Tara's eyes lowered and she shook her head. Sherlock turned to Mr Webb. "Did you?" He asked. The other man shrugged.

"I might've once or twice, Mr Holmes, but it was a long time ago."

"Tara, how much did you know about what Daniel Argyris did?" Sherlock asked.

"Not-not much, as it turned out," she replied bitterly.

"Oh?" Asked Sherlock with raised brows. "So you didn't know he was in the middle of a money laundering scam?" Tara fired up, eyes suddenly blazing with anger.

"I did actually, I had to know about it! I was a PA for a man named Mycroft Holmes so I was good with accounts. I helped him when he was away on trips but when we married, he told me he stopped!"

"And then?" John prompted.

"Tara, shush!" Malcolm ordered.

"Oh, but they know anyway! There's no point is there? No point in pretending," she sniffed and addressed Sherlock, John and I. "After two years, I met Malcolm. We connected instantly. Dan and I... We didn't get along."

"So why did you marry him?" I blurted. Sherlock gave me a Shut-the-Hell-up look.

"He was rich. He was powerful. He could talk you into things... I came from a good family. We had money but we didn't have his influence. When he... Offered to marry me, it was in my family's best interests. Two years later I meet Malcolm and we hit it off. So after two years of sneaking around, one day I'm looking at the accounts and something doesn't add up. Daniel had take. Money from our shared account and put it in one that only he could access in some overseas bank somewhere. I was mad-furious. So I confront him about it. He tells me everything... Eventually but that only made it worse. I told Malcolm what he'd done and we... Decided to take care of it. I wanted to be rid of him and that life. It was false and I was so unhappy. Malcolm made it worthwhile." She'd walked up to her husband and put her arm around his waist. He gave her a soft smile.

"Mr Webb," Sherlock said, turning to him, completely unmoved by the couple's show of affection. "How many times a year do you go hunting?"

"A couple," the man answered, his face hardening as he returned to the present.

"Where's your rifle?" Sherlock asked.

"Why do you want to know?"

"I don't. You just told me everything I need to know," Sherlock smirked. At that moment, there was a loud banging on the front door. John moved subtly to the the back, blocking the couples's escape route from there.

"POLICE! Open up!" Tara squealed.

"You said you hadn't called the police!" Sherlock smirked.

"I didn't. John did when we arrived." John nodded. I grinned. Good on you, John. I opened the door for the police. The DI looked at me suspiciously.

"Mrs. Webb?" He asked I pointed down the hall. The DI's brows furrowed but he didn't comment.

"What is going on, Sherlock?" The DI asked.

"Lestrade, I hoped you'd get here for the explanation," Sherlock said pleasantly.

"What?"

"Just listen," Sherlock ordered and the policeman fell silent. "Fourteen years ago, Daniel Argyris, Alec Bardsley and Andrew Chapman were murdered. In the police report, it was deemed a murder/suicide but that didn't fit with all the facts. What really happened was a third party was involved in the murder of all three. Mrs Webb, known then as Mrs Argyris, had had enough of her marriage and wanted out so she could be with her lover, Malcolm Webb. If she did however, she would be left disgraced and penniless. Not to mention if Daniel went down publicly he would take Tara with him as she had been involved in his scam and she would go to jail. So, Malcolm - It was Malcolm, wasn't it?" Malcolm nodded. "Thought so. So Malcolm came up with the solution. Tara found a date when he was going to meet with two gentlemen he was working with on his money laundering scam and where they were meeting. They had scouted out the place earlier that day, and found the perfect opportunity: a ventilation hole that opened up a few inches at ground level. Malcolm visited that meeting between the three men, looking down on the scene from an almost Birdseye view. Unnoticed by his victims. But your first shot missed, didn't it and hit Alec Bardsley instead. On your second shot, you got the right man but by then Chapman had seen you and drawn his handgun. Despite your earlier mess up, you're a very good shot, aren't you, Malcolm? So when Chapman screamed for help, you managed to shoot him in the mouth. It was perfect. The handgun fired as he fell and the police had their answer. Murder/suicide. You were free to marry Tara who was now a very wealthy widow and the police were none the wiser. What did I get wrong?" For a second, neither of the Webbs moved. They had been standing in silent horror for the duration of Sherlock's explanation. Lestrade, the DI, didn't seem to need anything else as he stepped forwards and handcuffed Malcolm. Tara sobbed.

"Malcolm Webb, you are under arrest for the murder of Daniel Argyris, Alec Bardsley and Andrew Chapman." The procedure was over in seconds. "Tara Webb, you are under arrest for accessory to murder and accessory for money laundering."

As the couple was lead away, Sherlock and John introduced me to the DI.

"Ah, Clara Lane, this is DI George Lestrade."

"Greg," John and the DI corrected at the same time. I rolled my eyes.

"Hi, I'm Clara."

"I have to admit, it does seem rather odd to see another human being hanging around with Sherlock and John. How did you meet?"

"Oh, I'm a client. I was looking through old records and found this file. It was a closed case but I saw some things that didn't add up. So I gave the case to Sherlock and John with the condition that I came along."

"Well that's... New... Why did you want to come along on a case?" Lestrade seemed confused at my motives. I laughed.

"I'm a journalist. I wasn't planning on doing a story on this but... Now it's gotten interesting, I think I'm going to talk to my editor. I wanted to go with John and Sherlock because I was bored, really, and it sounded like fun."

"Oh, god," said the DI. "Not another one? You're just like him!" John and I spoke at the same time:

"-I'm really not-"

"-she really is-" I glared at John.

"Anyway. The case is closed. Thank you, both of you for your help. It's been fun." I turned and left the house, catching a taxi back to my hotel.

Mr and Mrs Webb were tried in court and convicted. During their jail sentence, their children were cared for by their grandmother and visited their parents every other weekend.

Case closed.


	7. Part 2

**A/N: I should warn you guys, this is where things get heavy. I'm not sure what to put for trigger warnings, but there are suggestion of beatings and in later chapters there are parts that are ambiguous enough they could be taken as an allusion to rape. There is nothing more graphic than what would happen in a real Sherlock episode (which I don't own btw. I always forget to add disclaimers - oops!) but I'm just being careful. Still, if this hasn't put you off, enjoy Part 2!**

* * *

 **Part 2**

Speed was paramount. She ran, faster than she thought possible, not daring to look back. Not daring to let her mind focus on the sound of pounding feet behind her, the laboured breathing of her pursuer. Taking a sharp left, she leapt a low brick fence and ran behind the large suburban house it belonged to. She didn't get far; a tall wooden fence prevented her from getting into the back garden. Panicking, she whirled around and screamed.

The sirens heralding the arrival of the Met woke most of the quiet neighbourhood. Heads poked out of windows and doors, their faces ghostly pale against the street lamps outside. The reason for the police's arrival was lying slumped and glassy eyed against a tall wooden gate, her blonde hair covered most of her face and the tips were stained red with blood. Nobody knew her name - she wasn't from around here, the neighbours said.

The man who lived in the house where the young girl had died was still wearing his dressing gown and was holding his wife who was staring into space, the shock of the past thirty minutes had proved too much for her. The DI who was interviewing him ran a hand through his silver hair and walked back to his Sergeant.

"Get me to Baker Street."

The sirens didn't wake Sherlock, he was sitting in his favourite chair, eyes closed, palms pressed together as though in prayer. He didn't get up when he heard the knock on the door of 221, nor when the DI entered his living room.

"Do you ever sleep?" Lestrade asked, eyes taking in Sherlock's appearance: perfect ironed purple shirt and black pants. He clearly hadn't been to bed tonight.

"I could ask you the same question," Sherlock replied, opening his eyes and leaping up with a grace he had long perfected. "What have you got for me this time?" He asked, bringing his hands together and looking expectantly at the older man.

"Homocide. One victim, seventeen year old female. Murdered an hour ago," the DI ran another hand through his hair. At that moment, a door opened and John appeared, looking disheveled and still in the clutches of sleep. Lestrade eyed the newcomer with surprise.

"John? What are you doing here?" John frowned.

"I live here," he said.

"Do you? But... You got married." John scowled.

"Don't... Just don't..." Sherlock mumbled to Lestrade. The two men shared a knowing look. To John, Sherlock said, "John, get dressed! We have a case!" John groaned but perked up a little.

Lestrade gave Sherlock the address, and agreed to meet him at he crime scene. On the way, he told the driver to make a detour.


	8. Sunday, 9th November, 2014

**Sunday, November 9th, 2014**

I was woken up at four in the morning by an almighty banging. Realising it was my door, I got up and opened it, ready to give whoever it was an earful they would remember for a lifetime. Instead, I found Sherlock Holmes and John Watson waiting for me.

"Guys, it's four am. Please, can this wait till morning?" I groaned.

"It is morning. And now that you're awake, your not going to go back to sleep anyway, it's always been a problem. Lestrade needs our help." I perked up a little at Sherlock's words but was still thinking longingly of my warm bed.

"I thought you only worked with John," I questioned.

"I do," said Sherlock, not getting where I was going with this.

"So why do you want me to come along?"

"Because you're not a goldfish," he replied.

"A WHAT?" Sherlock shrugged.

"You're interesting. I can't read you as well as other people," he continued.

"And look how well that turned out last time," John mumbled.

"What happened last time?" I asked, my curiosity winning over my futile desire for sleep.

"It doesn't matter," Sherlock said dismissively. "Are you coming?" I didn't really need to think about it.

"What took you so long?" Lestrade called when we arrived on the scene.

"Took a detour!" John replied.

"Where's the body?" Sherlock asked, straight to the point.

"Over here," Lestrade ushered us over, not noticing me yet. We were lead down the the street between two large houses. A teenage girl was slumped against the wooden fence, grey eyes staring into nothingness. There was a lot of blood on her chest. Sherlock bent down and started examining the victim.

"Like you said, Lestrade, seventeen year old, left handed, was running from something. There's a stab wound to the chest. You're looking for a wide blade: it sliced the heart but mostly got the left lung. She would have died within two and a half minutes." He looked up at the three of us watching him work. "Do you have an ID yet?" Lestrade shook his head.

"Hopefully we'll know more when we get her to St Bart's," he sighed.

"What was she doing out here?" I asked. "She must have run an awful long way." Lestrade spun around.

"Who- oh. Clara, what are you doing here?" He asked.

"I don't know," I replied. "I was the detour by the way."

"I knew it," the DI sighed. "You're just like him."

"Excuse me? He turned up at my hotel room banging on the door loud enough to wake everyone on the second floor, telling me to come with him to a crime scene!"

"And you agreed, didn't you," the DI pointed out.

"Yeah," I laughed.

"Why?"

"Why not? Today was going to be boring if I didn't." John and Lestrade shared a terrified look. I ignored them and stepped closer to the corpse.

"So where did she run from?" I asked Sherlock. "And why?"

"Well the answer to the second question is pretty obvious," Sherlock said.

"Granted, but why was she killed? Date rape gone wrong? Look at her clothes - she was obviously out partying or meeting someone." I indicated the short silver sequinned dress she was wearing and the matching heels.

"Possibly, but I don't think so," Sherlock answered.

"Why not?" I asked. He pointed to the dress.

"The dress shows no sign of stress and the tights aren't ripped or anything suggesting foul play. Her heels were new so they were either bought to match the dress or the two were bought together which means it was for someone special. Not their first date but maybe their first in a while. Possibly just got back together with an old boyfriend."

"So do you think he did it?" I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"No. There's something else going on here."

After Sherlock had fully catalogued the crime scene and talked to the man who'd found the victim, we followed New Scotland Yard to the morgue at St. Bartholomew's hospital.

The pathologist was a plain, but pretty young woman called Molly Hooper. John explained that she was the pathologist Sherlock preferred to work with, and I could definitely see why. Sherlock fired questions at her as soon as we walked in and she answered each one quickly and succinctly before moving on.

"Time of death?"

"Around four this morning."

"Alcohol?"

"None."

"Anything else?"

"Not in her system that we could find."

"Identification?"

"Still searching." This threw Sherlock slightly, but after a minute pause he grinned.

"You can't find any medical records from dental or finger prints?" He asked.

"Tried both. I started the search again but nothing's shown up so far." Sherlock turned to Lestrade.

"And she had nothing on her? No phone? Purse? Anything? Receipts?" Lestrade shook his head.

"Sorry, Sherlock. There was nothing on the body except the clothes she was wearing and a lot of blood." Sherlock frowned.

"Have there been any missing person reports that match her description?"

"You think, what, she ran away? Wearing that?" Lestrade asked, incredulous.

"Not wearing that, you idiot," I told the DI. "If she ran away and a missing person's report was filed, she obviously has been away for at least a day or two. Other than the blood, that dress was really pretty clean. She'd changed into it recently." Lestrade looked a little stunned at my brazen manner, but he was the one who kept saying I was just like Sherlock. Molly Hooper looked me over, eyebrow quirking like she couldn't decide wether to be impressed or threatened. She glance at Sherlock to gauge his reaction to my assessment of the victim's clothes and then back at me, clearly happy he was ignoring me.

"Who is she?" She asked Sherlock quietly so most of the other people in the room couldn't hear. Sherlock gave her and reassuring smile which caught me off guard. There was obviously something more than a professional relationship between those two. I held out my hand.

"Clara Lane," I introduced myself. "Journalist. I was a client who insisted on coming along about a week ago. Guess he liked having someone else explaining to the others what he was thinking." Sherlock didn't comment. Molly eyed me more carefully but I stepped back out of her space. I wasn't going to step on her turf. I smiled pleasantly and she relaxed.

The silence was prevented from getting awkward by Sherlock who shouted, "Got it!" From behind the computer he was working on. We all crowded around. On the screen was a missing persons report filed on the second of November. The picture attached was of the victim, though her hair was longer and the colour of chocolate rather than the blonde it was when she was murdered.

"Seventeen year old Grace McIntyre was last seen leaving a friend's house two blocks away from her home in East London last Sunday morning. Any information on her whereabouts should be given to the metropolitan police," I read aloud over Sherlock's shoulder. Below was a physical description that matched our victim.

"So now we have a name," said John with a sigh.

"And," said Sherlock, pointing to the bottom of the screen. "An address."

 _Lestrade pulled a hand through his short grey hair in frustration. This was the worst part of the job. It was seven thirty am on Sunday morning. He had copied down the address Sherlock had found and headed over there to tell the parents. He knocked twice. His sergeant, an ambitious woman named Sally Donovan hung behind him. She didn't like this bit either. The door was opened by a rather dishevelled looking woman in her late forties. Lestrade flashed his badge._

 _"Mrs McIntyre?" He asked. She nodded. "May we come in?" She stepped aside to let the police officers through._

 _"James?" She called upstairs. "James, it's the police!" A man, obviously Mr McIntyre, came downstairs, tucking a white button-down shirt into a tidy pair of black pants._

 _"Are you here about Gracie?" He asked urgently, hopefully. Lestrade noted the expression with a sad resignation._

 _"I'm afraid..." He started. "We found her body this morning." Mrs McIntyre screamed. It was a distraught keening moan that hurt to hear. Mr McIntyre seemed to have gone into shock. His face had gone white as paper but his eyes were uncomprehending. He didn't seem to feel his wife throw her arms around his neck and sob into his shoulder. His arm went around hers, but it seemed more of a reflex action than an attempt to give her any comfort. Finally, he spoke: "When?" His voice was hoarse. Sally answered._

 _"Four am this morning. She was murdered."_


	9. Monday, 10th November, 2014

**I just checked this chapter and something went wrong with the formatting. Hopefully I've fixed it now. Enjoy!**

* * *

 **Monday, November 10th, 2014**

After a rather frustrating day spent futilely trying to find where the victim had been before she died I decided to call it a day.

The next morning, at a merciful hour this time, there was another loud knocking on the door. Getting up from my makeshift desk, I opened the door to find the boys waiting for me.

"Got a break through?" I asked, wondering why they had bothered to come here instead of texting me to come to Baker Street. Sherlock was bouncing on the balls of his feet and John was looking worried. I took this to mean something else had happened. "What is it?"

"We'll tell you in the car. Come on," Sherlock said brusquely. I followed, curiosity over the current case making me forget the project I'd been working on before I'd been interrupted.

Once the three of us had climbed into the taxi, Sherlock updated me on what had happened.

"Lestrade called," he said. "There's been another one."

"Another murder?" I asked. "That's the second one in two days! Are they connected?"

"We'll find out once we get there," Sherlock replied.

"Does this mean it's a serial killer?" I wondered.

"No," said John. "Well... Not yet."

We pulled up by a construction site that had been mostly cleared, although I could still hear work going on on the topmost floors. The room was dimly lit but the place was swarming with police who were busy cordoning off the area. In one corner, I could see the huddled shape of a body. Sherlock and John ducked under the police tape and headed in the direction of Lestrade. I followed their lead, but didn't bother talking to the DI. I headed towards the body on the floor, careful not to touch anything. The victim was in her teens, dark skinned with a purple party dress on. She was propped up in a corner, terror stretching her face into a grotesque but silent scream. Even in death, her brown eyes seemed to plead for a mercy that never came. I crouched and looked closer. Her feet were bare and bloodied but a pair of heels were on the floor a few feet from the body. I went over to them and saw that the soles were scuffed and worn.

"What do you reckon?" Sherlock's voice came from right behind me, making me jump. I didn't bother looking at him. His voice told me I was being tested.

"I'd say they're connected. The murders look almost identical. She was chased, hence the bare feet and the fact that she's backed into a corner. She too, looks like she's been to a party or a date last night. Hang on," I said, looking closer at the victim. A glint of silver has caught my eye. "That's a promise ring," I told Sherlock. "She has a boyfriend."

"Irrelevant," Sherlock dismissed the fact. Other than that, he looked grudgingly impressed. I frowned.

"Has Scotland Yard got an ID for her yet?" I asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"I told them to look in missing persons because they weren't going to get anything useful from the victim."

"Does Lestrade think these two killings are connected?" I asked.

"He's not THAT stupid."

"That almost sounded like a compliment, Sherlock Holmes," I told him, feigning shock. He ignored me, as expected.

"Hey!" One of the PCs pointed in my direction. "Who are you?" I glared at Sherlock.

"Am I actually supposed to be here?" I asked him quietly as the Constable started towards me.

"You're with me."

"Why do I get the feeling you're lying?" I asked suspiciously. He ignored me. Again. By this time, the police constable had reached us.

"I'm sorry, miss, but this is a crime scene and I'm going to have to ask you to leave." I rolled my eyes.

"Sherlock and John are allowed here. I know it's not police policy but you let them in and I'm with them," I reasoned. The PC turned to Sherlock who was watching the conversation with an air of detached amusement.

"Sir, is this true?" Sherlock nodded. "Very well, miss. Just don't touch anything." I nodded.

"Of course. I'm just here to help." The constable nodded to me and trotted off. I scowled at Sherlock. "You're an ass, you know that, right?" I told him as he burst out laughing. "What?" I demanded.

"'Of course'," chuckled in a crude imitation of my voice. "'I'm just here to help.'"

"Oh, stop it!" I growled. "What was I supposed to say?"

"Lestrade and John are convinced that you're like me," Sherlock continued. "At least now we have a valid argument to the contrary."

"Wow," I said sarcastically. "That's such a relief." I stalked off back to John who was watching Sherlock's laughing fit from behind the police tape.

"What," he said when I reached him, "the hell is going on?"

"Oh, he was just laughing at how unlike him I am," I said airily. John frowned.

"You do realise that's a good thing, right?" He said worriedly. I rolled my eyes.

"Of course not," I said, my sarcasm returning for round two. "Who wouldn't want to be just like Sherlock Holmes?"

An hour later, the victim's body was moved to the morgue at St. Bart's.

Again, we watched the rapid fire question and answer session. The cause of death was the same as the first victim. A dark blood stain was now visible on the victim's dress under the harsh lights of the hospital. Five minutes after we had arrived, Lestrade received a text from his sergeant telling him they had found a missing persons report that matched the victim.

"Sherlock," the DI said, offering his phone to the detective. Sherlock took the device and read the information on it.

"A sixteen year old Taylor Jackson, went missing eight days ago."

"That's the same day as the first victim," I said, now running through possibilities in my head.

"When did you say the time of death was?" Lestrade asked Molly Hooper.

"Some time before three am this morning.

"That's only twenty three hours after he killed the first one," John said.

"Or she," I corrected. John shrugged. "So we've got to find out what both victims were doing during the week they went missing."

Lestrade frowned. "That seems to be harder than we anticipated."

* * *

At midday, we broke for lunch. John, Sherlock and I decided to get something from the cafeteria.

"So how do we go about this?" I asked the boys.

"I dunno," conceded John.

"We need to find a connection," Sherlock said, watching the two of us eat.

"Okay. So what?" I asked. "Did they go to the same club? Did they buy from the same dealer?"

"There was no trace of street drugs in their systems."

"Okay... Did they know each other?"

"We don't know."

"What about high school?" I suggested.

"There is no Grace McIntyre or Taylor Jackson in any current high school roll. Grace's parents said she'd dropped out recently," Sherlock reported.

"But did they go to they same school?" I asked.

"No."

"Okay. So what, then?"

* * *

 _She huddled there in the dark. The concrete floor was cold and hard beneath her skin. She looked around her. In the dim light she could see at least three other barely moving shapes in the gloom. Water trickled into the basement via a broken water pipe. The one time she had tried it, the water had tasted horrible and metallic and she had given up on the idea. Her head pounded and she could feel her thoughts steer into the direction of her family. She shivered as a drop of water hit the top of her head but it couldn't stop the rush of emotions thinking of her family incites inside her. Would she ever see her family and friends again? She thought of the others. Two had been taken from the basement already and never returned. They had been her friends once. Best friends at one time. She'd known Grace from a very early age, Taylor, she'd met in her preteen years. She had been too scared to see how many others in this awful place she might've once thought of as sisters. For the third time since her incarceration, she heard heavy footsteps coming closer. She glanced to the nameless girl closest to her and reached out and squeezed her hand. She couldn't see who it was, but she didn't care. He was coming for another one._


	10. Wednesday, 12th November, 2014

**Wednesday, November 12th, 2014**

I left Sherlock and John alone yesterday. No developments came to light and I had work to do. Plus, Sherlock had decided he wanted to follow something up and wouldn't let me come with him. I had the feeling that he was up to something and that worried me. So I was almost relieved when I was told to go to the address sent to my phone. Sherlock and John was waiting for me when I arrived.

"Good, you're here," he said when he saw me.

"What's going on, Sherlock?"

"This one's different," he replied cryptically. I blanched.

"Another one?" Sherlock just nodded.

"Why's this one different?" He didn't reply, just indicated the body lying on the floor. Like the first two, she was dressed in a party dress and matching high heels - this turquoise green in colour. She was a brunette, but it didn't take John, who was examining the victim with latex gloves on, to tell why this one was different. There were slice marks on her arms; fresh and definitely deliberate. They weren't very deep but they would've hurt. This one's hair was more of a mess than the other two and one of the dress's seams had split down the side. On her face there was a small cut, like she had been hit in the face and instead of the usual fatal stab wound to the heart, there was a long, bloody cut across her throat. I grimaced.

"Not pretty," I said.

"Murder never is," said John. I sighed.

"You're right. But this one's on a whole new level to the other two. What do you think happened?" John frowned.

"The lacerations on her arms were made by a knife of some sort. Not self inflicted, if that's what you're thinking, they're going in the wrong direction and at the wrong angle. I... Think she was tortured."

"And the slit throat?" I asked.

"Maybe the killer got what he needed and killed her?" He suggested. I shook my head.

"If that was the case, then the killer would have stabbed her in the heart like the others."

"Exactly," Sherlock said from behind me.

"Okay, Sherlock. What do you think?" I asked.

"I think John's right. She was tortured. But she got away and was killed from behind."

"The others were chased until they managed to get themselves into a corner. This one must have escaped, and have been running when the killer caught up with her and slit her throat. That's why she wasn't stabbed in the heart," I finished. "Was she found lying face down?" I asked. John nodded.

"They turned her over for the preliminary post mortem."

"Okay, that's good," i said absently.

"Good?" John asked, unimpressed by my use of the word. I shrugged and continued to look around. There was a trail of blood that started just where the victim's feet were: she had been standing there when she'd was killed and just crumpled to the ground. I could see it playing in my head. I closed my eyes and tried to banish the image. Sherlock, it seemed, had decided that he'd gotten all the data he could.

"Come on boys," I called, already halfway to the cordon. "Let's catch this bastard."

The victim's name was Siobhan Delaney. She was nearly fifteen years old and had been missing for eleven days. Molly confirmed the time of death to be around five am. She, like I was, seemed to be finding it harder to stay professional with this latest and most brutal murder. We had gathered in the lab to await her report. When she walked in, she walked directly to Sherlock and told him quietly, "Sherlock? There's uh... Well there's signs of forced entry."

"Well of course, she was killed with a knife."

"No, Sherlock, the other kind." His eyes widened slightly, the only sign of emotion to reach his face before he was impassive again.

"Well that's interesting," he said quietly.

"What? What is it?" Lestrade demanded. Molly told the other two. This sent the DI into a flurry of phone calls and John just frowned and started pacing slightly.

"Look what he did to her, though," Molly was saying to Sherlock. "Who would do that?"

"A more important question is," Sherlock said, standing, fingers still steepled. "Why was there a gap?"

"Why do you mean, Sherlock?" I asked.

"The first two happened within twenty four hours then there was a gap before the third murder. I was fully expecting someone to find another body yesterday but this newest victim was only murdered this morning. Whoever's responsible is someone who has a routine. So why would he leave a gap? See, I don't think we're dealing with a serial killer." My eyes widened as I began to understand what he was saying.

"You mean..." I tried, but my voice seemed to have stuck. "He's got more? And that..." I pointed to the photos of the victim that were spread on one of the benches. "That is what he does to them?" Sherlock nodded.

"But the first two," said Lestrade. "They weren't any where near that state."

"What if..." I said. "What if he doesn't plan to kill them? He grabs them, tortures them and does... Well, that. But those three - the ones who ended up dead, what if those were the lucky ones? The ones who made a break for it and escaped?" Lestrade went pale.

"Oh, dear God," he said.

 _On her way back to the hotel room later that day, Clara found she was being stalked. Finally, she stopped and turned around to face the sleek black car following her and told them to cut it out. A woman got out and told her to get in._

 _"Not bloody likely," Clara replied. The woman smiled._

 _"I think you'll find, Miss Lane, you'll want to get into the car. This is a request from someone whom I'm sure you're dying to speak to, being a journalist and all, you'll want to hear both sides if the story before you go saying things that you'll later regret." In shock, Clara climbed in. Sherlock's voice from a week ago floating in behind her:_

 _"You were followed to your hotel yesterday from the library. What were you looking up that grabbed someone's attention?"_

 _She had underestimated him and now he wanted answers. She thought about how she could get out of this without being arrested or worse for the entire journey. She was let out in an abandoned underground parking lot. The unmistakeable silhouette of one of the country's most influential government officials was waiting for her._

 _"I'm not going to tell you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes, Miss Lane. That would just raise his suspicions and although I may not like it sometimes, you're helpful to him."_

 _"Why am I here then?" Clara asked confidently, walking towards the man._

 _"Because you need to know a few things. One, I know who you are and what you're secretly investigating. Two, revealing this information to Sherlock Holmes would be tantamount to forfeiting your life." Clara laughed._

 _"You'd kill me for telling your brother the truth?" She asked skeptically._

 _"You should know, Miss Lane, I don't make idle threats." The voice sounded so serious and so deadly, that Clara's resolve shrank in the honesty of the words._

 _"There is one thing you can do to ensure you live a long and happy life," Mycroft told her as if they were two chums chatting over a cup of Earl Grey. "Don't tell Sherlock and stop looking in dark corners. You shouldn't be surprised that monsters live in the dark and dangerous past of someone like Sherlock. You're just like him, you know? Before he changed into the sociopath he is now."_

 _"Yeah, well who's fault is that?" Clara spat._

 _"I had no involvement in what happened," sighed Mycroft. "And I suggest you keep it that way."_


	11. Thursday, 13th November, 2014

**Thursday, November 13th, 2014**

Today I headed to Baker Street unbidden. This case was totally different to the first one we had worked on together which had been almost purely academic. We had worked out that for this one, young girls' lives depended on solving it as quickly as possible.

Mrs Hudson opened the door when I knocked.

"Ah, Clara! Fancy seeing you here!" She said, smiling. I tried to return the gesture but my mind kept flashing back to that last girl getting killed and I couldn't.

"Hi, Mrs Hudson. Are the boys in?" Her smile faltered.

"I think so. Sherlock's in the middle of a tough case though. Nasty business with teenaged girls. And they call HIM a psychopath!"

"I know, Mrs Hudson, I'm working on it with him. I saw the bodies."

"Well you better come in then," Mrs Hudson replied. I thanked her and headed upstairs. The door to 221B was open. I knocked softly, knowing that Sherlock was prone to violent outbursts when interrupted.

"Shh," Sherlock whispered. He was sitting in his usual chair, eyes closed, deep in though.

"Hi, Sherlock. What's going on with the case. I take it there hasn't been another one?" He shook his head. I took a deep breath in anticipation for a surprise attack. When no such even was forthcoming I stepped further into the flat and decided it was safe to keep talking. "So I was thinking. These girls are connected somehow, aren't they?"

"Not necessarily," Sherlock replied. "They could just have been easy pickings." I grimaced at his choice of words but didn't comment.

"Well how about you work on that basis and I'll look for connections," I suggested. He didn't reply so I took that for an assent and headed to the table by his chair. "Can I use your laptop?" I asked. He nodded slightly. I opened it and called up an internet browser. I typed in the name of the first victim into Google and looked for the one we wanted. Seeing a promising Facebook profile, I clicked on the link to see what I could glean from that. It listed the high school she went to so I opened a new tab and googled the school to see what I could find there. When nothing looked promising, I opened another tab and did the same with the second victim and the third. All three went to separate schools so that wasn't the connection, but I had the feeling there was something I was missing so I continued searching. I noted the year they started school and tried looking for old school friends they might have had. If only just to see what they had to say about them. When finding them proved more difficult than I had anticipated, I changed tack, searching instead for girls who had gone missing at the same time. It came up with a list of seven others - excluding the victims.

 _Tasha Mckenzie  
_ _Alice Freund  
_ _Taylor Jackson  
_ _Evie Wise  
_ _Siobhan Delaney  
_ _Harriet Smith  
_ _Grace McIntyre  
_ _Sophie Street  
_ _Michelle Prior  
_ _Katherine Bryant_

"Hey, Sherlock," I said.

"Busy," he mumbled.

"Come on, I might be onto something!" Sighing, he got out of his chair and went to stand behind me.

"A list of all girls who were reported missing around the same date. Clever," he said. "What do you need me for?"

"We need to narrow down the list. Separate the runaways from the potential victims," I answered. "You're good at that, right?" Sherlock answered by shoving me out of the chair and sitting down in my newly vacated seat. He closed all my tabs except the list, opening each missing persons report on a new tab, excluding the victims'.

Within minutes he'd discarded Tasha Mackenzie as a runaway.

"The rest I don't know about," Sherlock admitted.

"So we find them?" I asked.

"That would take too long."

"Not if we give Scotland Yard a list of suspected victims and they search," I said.

"They won't find them," he said.

"Sherlock, they got their jobs for a reason. You don't give them enough credit. And the ones we can't find we assume are the ones who are where the victims were before they were killed."

We gave Lestrade a list of the potential victims: Alice, Evie, Harriet, Sophie, Michelle and Katherine and he said he'd get a team onto it. I decided that the next best way for us to narrow down the reach would be for us to interview the families of the missing girls.

John came into the living room soon after we reached the decision.

"Hi, Clara. What have you two been doing?"

"Come on, John!" Sherlock said, pulling on his coat and heading for the stairs.

"Where are we going?" He asked as he followed.

"We're going to talk to people, John," I told him with over enthusiasm, knowing it would annoy Sherlock and I was in a weird mood.

We took a taxi to the house of the fist name on the list: Alice Freund. I knocked and waited for an answer. It was three in the afternoon so I figured someone could be home. I was right. A woman in her early forties opened the door. She was tall, with shoulder length white-blonde hair and large purple bruises under her eyes like she hand had a proper nights sleep in a while.

"Mrs Freund?" I asked. She nodded. "We're here about Alice. Can we come in?"

Once in the living room we introduced ourselves properly then began asking questions.

"Can you describe your daughter's manner before she disappeared?" Sherlock asked.

"She was normal. Happy!" Mrs Freund said tiredly. "I've told the police this already."

"Yes, well, we're not the police," said John. Pulling out a piece of paper with a copy of our list on it I showed it to her.

"Do you recognise any names on that list, Mrs Freund?" I asked gently. She thought for a moment.

"Yes," she breathed. "Grace McIntyre and Evie Wise were her best friends at primary school." Sherlock, John and I shared a significant look. "What has this got to do with my daughter's disappearance?"

"I'm sorry, Mrs Freund. Grace and Evie were reported missing around the same time as your daughter and Grace has been found dead." I tried to say it as gently as I could but there was no way the news was going to be less hard for the poor woman who started sobbing at my words. "Listen," I said. "Listen. She hasn't been found yet - which given the circumstances is actually a good thing. The other girls' bodies were all found within hours of their deaths which means Alice is still alive."

"The other girls on the list," Mrs Freund sniffed. "Who are they?"

"They all dissapeared at the same time as Alice."

"And are they dead?" She asked heasitantly.

"Three. Grace, Siobhan and Taylor. The rest are unaccounted for like Alice."

"And you think they're still alive?" She asked.

"Yes," replied Sherlock. "Yes we do."

* * *

The next place we went to was the house of the next name on our list: Harriet Smith. The door was opened almost immediately when we knocked.

"Harry?" A voice said hopefully. Footsteps were heard behind the door. When it was wrenched open the man's face fell and he glared at us as if it was our fault his daughter hadn't come home yet. "Who are you?" He demanded. Surprisingly, Sherlock put his hand forward first and quirked a small smile.

"Sherlock Holmes, Mr Smith. This is Dr John Watson and Clara Lane. May we come in?" The man's mouth fell open and he wordlessly lead us inside.

"Are you working on my daughter's case?" Mr Smith asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Yes. We would like to ask a few questions." Mr Smith indicated for him to continue so he did. "How was your daughter acting last time you saw her?"

"The thing you have to understand, Mr Holmes, is that Harriet took the loss of her mother very hard. Those two were a lot closer than I was with Harry and when she died... She retreated from the world. Sometimes she wouldn't talk for days at a time and she had trouble sleeping which made her very temperamental. The week before she dissapeared, she was worse than usual but she was prone to bad days. You don't think... She didn't... She wasn't that sort of depressed! She wouldn't just leave without telling me! We weren't close but we had an understanding."

"Mr Smith, do you recognise any of these names?" I asked, handing him the paper with the list on it. He studied it for a moment before shaking his head.

"Who are they?"

"They're a list of girls that went missing at around the same time as your daughter."

"I don't know any of them. Sorry."

"That's fine," I said, standing and shouldering my bag. "Thank you for your time."

When we were outside again, we discussed our next move.

"What so you think, Sherlock?" I asked. He frowned.

"I'll tell you once we know more," he said. We decided on one more visit before heading back to the flat.

The last house we visited was the home of Sophie Street. It was five pm by the time we knocked and both her parents were home when we rang the door bell. We were lead into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Both Mr and Mrs Street were looking tired and wan. Mrs Street stood when we entered the room. She was tall, thin and tan with short dyed blonde hair and a large glass of brandy in one hand.

"Carol? This is Sherlock Holmes, Clara Lane and Dr John Watson. They're here about Sophie," Mr Street told his wife.

"I've already talked to the police," she told us.

"We're not the police," Sherlock said.

"No, of course not," Mrs Street agreed listlessly.

"Nevertheless," I said, watching her with pity. "We'd like to ask you some questions."

"Of course."

"Can you describe the way your daughter was acting before she disappeared?"

"She was happy. Stressed because of exams, but happy. She loves her schoolwork. She's so focussed on getting good grades. She's such a high achiever." I frowned.

"Do either of you recognise any of these names?" I asked the two sad people in front if me, showing them the list.

They didn't take long to answer.

"Yes. Siobhan and Michelle are Sophie's best friends and Evie... She was a friend of Sophie's in her second year of high school," Mr Street confirmed.

"Why not anymore?" I asked.

"She uhh... She moved schools, apparently. Had a bit of a row with the school and left. She's another high achiever is Evie. She just doesn't suit the system. What's this got to do with Sophie?"

"All these girls went missing at the same time. Are you sure to don't know any others?" Both parents shook their heads. "Then I think we should leave you to it. Just know we're trying our very best to find them." John and I stood up.

"If you find anything else, just call Scotland Yard and they'll get in touch with us," he said. Mr and Mrs Street nodded numbly. We left the house and headed our separate ways, me to my hotel room and the boys to Baker Street for another long night of puzzling over the case.

* * *

 _Katherine came back. She was so happy she wept with relief. She was beaten and bruised but alive and, after a while, talking. We asked her what happened to her but she just whimpered and hugged closer to her. She spent a long time comforting Katherine, trying not to notice the fresh scars on her arms or the cuts on her face or the fact that her spine could now be felt through the black dress she had returned wearing. After what felt like hours she managed to get out of her what happened to the ones that didn't come back and she choked on a sob of her own. Siobhan had been a close friend until recently after they had just drifted apart after she moved schools again and her loss felt like a physical blow. She cried silently for the sweet girl for a long time after that and wondered how much Michelle and Sophie knew. Sophie would take the news even worse that she was: the two girls had been best friends since primary school. Katherine took more time to tell her about Grace and Taylor. She had held picked up the pieces both girls had left her in when they stabbed her in the back and obviously hadn't known how she would take it. The loss hurt, but she had been estranged from both girls for years. For the first time in days, the faceless girls spoke to each other, and she learned who she was sharing this dirty, cold basement with. Michelle and Sophie were both heart broken at the news of Siobhan's death - no. Murder. Alice was silent at the news of Grace's, like she'd already known. She probably had, because she was the only other girl to come back alive so far. Nobody else knew Taylor so she wasn't mourned like the other two. Then the girls started asking why Katherine had survived her ordeal when the others hadn't. She had to tell them all to shut up. Katherine wasn't going to relay her ordeal until she was ready - if ever. All she had gotten out of Katherine was that the other girls fought and that's why they died. If you don't fight, you don't die, he'd told her. You get to go back to the others. If you don't fight you make it better for them. I'd be more gentle if none of you fight. So what could she do? That night, when he came down, he seemed less angry than the previous days. The girls huddled by the walls, trying not to be noticed. When he picked Sophie up by the hair and dragged her to up the stairs, she had gone without a fight. The news of Siobhan had seemed to have number her. It was only when the door had closed behind them and they had relaxed slightly, that they heard her screams._


	12. Friday, 14th November, 2014

**Friday, November 14th, 2014**

The big break happened this morning. I got a call from John saying they were heading to St Bart's hospital and to meet them there as soon as possible.

"We've got a live one," he panted. He sounded like he was running. "Barely, but she's alive."

Sophie Street had been found in an alley, suffering from hypothermia but the cold is what saved her. She was in surgery for internal bleeding and the closing of a stab wound at the base of her neck when I arrived. Everyone seemed happy with the result, just as long as she survived the surgery, the doctors said she'd probably be okay. Her parents arrived around the same time as I did. It was six thirty am but both Mr and Mrs street were fully dressed, though looking rather dishevelled, and wide eyed, carrying all the signs of running on adrenaline. She threw herself into my arms when she saw me and sobbed into my shoulder. I awkwardly patted her back and quietly reassured her everything was going to be okay.

After a few hours, a doctor in surgical scrubs found us.

"She's going to pull through," he told the group of us in the waiting room. "She's in a coma from the cold and the trauma but she's going to make it." His announcement was received with cheers from Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan and sobbing from the Streets. John and I breathed a sigh of relief and Sherlock just watched the proceedings with a quiet look of amusement on his face. I walked over to him.

"You could at least look happy to know she's going to make it," I told him, smirking.

"I am. See, smiling and everything. When she wakes up she can give us some answers."

"Yeah. Just don't give her a hard time. We don't know what happened to her. She mightn't want to talk about it."

"Why not?" He asked, genuinely confused. "Telling us what happened is the key to saving her friends and getting justice for the ones that were killed."

"You don't care about that, though. Anyway, why don't you ask John why talking about something like that would be too painful to do so soon after recovering from her mental and physical injuries."

"What's John got to do with anything?" He asked.

"He was injured in Afghanistan, remember?" I reminded him, rolling my eyes and shaking my head. "He might just be useful in understanding what will be going through that poor girl's head when she wakes up and you interrogate her about it." Sherlock frowned but walked over to John.

After five hours of waiting, (in which Sherlock got so bored he looked like he was itching to shoot something) we were finally let into Sophie Street's room.

The blinds were closed, but enough light slipped through to cast ghastly shadows on her face. She looked gaunt and her face was very pale against the white sheets. Purple bruises blossomed over her face and arms and every time she shifted slightly she winced even with the morphine she was hooked up to. Her mother was holding onto her hand tightly but she didn't seem to notice.

"Sophie Street?" Lestrade asked gently. He was ignored.

"Sophie," said Sherlock gently, surprising everyone in the room. "We need to know what happened." I stared at him. She shook her head slightly.

"She hasn't said a word since she woke up," said her father.

"Please Sophie," I joined in. "Anything you can tell us is vitally important. You had other girls with you, didn't you?" There was a pause and everyone waited with baited breath. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, the broken girl gave a small nod. I stepped closer, trying not to look threatening. She didn't seem to notice. "How many?" I asked. There was silence for a full half a minute before she spoke.

"I don't know." Her voice sounded dead and beyond tired.

"Can you guess?" I asked, worried I was pushing too hard. She thought for a moment.

"They kept getting taken away," she said softly, a dry sob escaping her lips.

"Who did? Do you know any names?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"Michelle is still there. And Evie. The two that came back - I think their names are Alice and Katherine but I don't know about the others."

"Where are they?" Lestrade asked.

"I... I feel tired," the girl said.

"That's okay just one more question. Where were you?"

"I don't know. We were kept in a..." She took a shuddering breath. "In a basement of some kind. I don't know where."

"Thank you, Sophie. We'll leave you in peace."

"There was a girl - Siobhan. I was told she was dead."

"I'm sorry, Sophie," I said. She nodded. Her eyes glazed over and she stared into space.

 _She was still holding Katherine close to her body when the footsteps echoed down from the concrete steps that lead to the basement. Sophie had been taken last night and hadn't returned. She didn't want to think about it, but she knew that Sophie was dead. After a week of this, death was starting to sound like a more pleasant option. The girl whimpered when the door opened and she clapped a hand over her mouth before the sound could draw the monster's attention. There were now only four girls in the basement, she and Michelle the only ones who hadn't been taken out of the basement for a night. She felt sick. Not enough food and dehydration was impairing her judgment and preventing her from thinking properly it made her angry. This whole situation and the fact it was her fault. Girls had died because of her. She was sure of it. She was the only connection between all of them which must mean it was her fault. What made her despair was that she didn't know why. If the monster ever spoke she could reason with him. It's her fault so he should take it out solely with her. After a few days she had realised that in a weird twisted way, he was. He was forcing her to watch all the girls who had ever been her best friends being taken away to be tortured and killed. She'd worked it out now so when she heard the heavy footfalls she had started to sob quietly._

 _"Michelle, I am so sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry. Don't fight. Please you have to survive this. We have to get out of this somehow. Just survive today then he seems to leave you alone. I'm so sorry,"_

 _Then Alice had stepped in and shushed her and she'd taken to comforting Katherine, who at the sound had tried to bury her face in her shoulder._


	13. Saturday, 15th November, 2014

**Saturday, November 15th, 2014**

A trauma councillor had arrived to talk to Sophie Street this morning but wouldn't let us in. So, Sherlock, John and I decided to talk to the parents of the girls that were still missing.

When we arrived, it was ten o'clock so we hoped they would be home, given it was a Saturday. We had decided to go to Katherine Briant's house first. The address they were given was in a rougher part of town, rundown and unkempt but still liveable. When they knocked, the door wasn't answered immediately.

"Is that you Kitty?" Came a woman's voice. "You've got a lot of explaining to do, girl. Where the hell have you been this time?"

"Sorry, Mrs Briant," I called through the door. "It's..." I looked to Sherlock and John for help. Sherlock mimed showing a badge and I got the message. "It's the police," I finished. Clearly, Katherine's mother wasn't that bright because she believed me. However that didn't change things in our favour.

"Go away," she said. I would have laughed, had the situation not called for something more helpful.

"Please, we need to talk to you," I tried.

"I'm not letting you in my house! You don't have the right to come in here without a warrant!"

"We don't have to come in," John called through the door. "We just want to ask you some questions about... Uh, Kitty." Making grumbling noises, the woman opened the door. She was stocky in build with long but thin honey colour hair that looked like it needed a wash.

"I already told the police everything. What do you want?" She demanded. Wasting no time and knowing that the key to cracking this case was finding a connection between the girls, I showed the disgruntled woman the piece of paper with the list of missing girls on it. "What's this?" She asked, eyeing it suspiciously.

"Do you recognise any of these names?" I asked patiently.

"Why would I?" She asked then gave a gruff sigh of irritation and looked at the paper properly.

"She might have a mate called Evie or Eva or something. Yeah. Katherine went to her place a couple of times. I dunno about any of the others."

"Thank you for your time," I said graciously. The woman grunted and disappeared inside again. We walked back to the main road and hailed a taxi.

"So where to next?" asked John. Sherlock and I shared a we-both-know-what's-really-going-on-here look that made John groan out loud.

"What?" We both asked at the same time.

"The face! Why do you two always use the face?"

"What face?" I asked. "This is my normal face."

"I used to think it was just Sherlock who did the face," groaned John. Sherlock started chuckling slightly.

"Sorry, John. I forgot. We're going to visit the parents of Evie Wise. Almost all the other missing girls seem to know her or have done in the past and I think they could give us some answers."

The door was answered almost immediately after I rang the doorbell.

"Yes?" The woman asked.

"Mrs Wise?" I asked. She nodded. "We're here about Evie. Can we come in?"

We were ushered inside without hesitation.

"Any news?" She asked as soon as we were in the kitchen.

"We're working on it. Can you tell us if you recognise any of these names?" She examined the list and gave a little laugh that seemed to be of nostalgia.

"Grace and Alice were Evie's best friends for the first few years of primary school. Then we moved to another part of London and her friend there was Taylor Jackson. Then she started high school and her best friend was Katherine. They still keep in touch. Evie's a bit delicate sometimes and Katherine calms her if she gets upset. Even over the phone. But we had to change schools. That's when she became friends with Siobhan, Michelle and Sophie." She looked up at us, her smile gone. "What's this got to do with her being missing now?"

"All these girls were reported missing at the same time. Over the past week, three have been found murdered," I began to explain but was cut off by a sharp intake of breath from Mrs Wise. "Don't worry, Sophie Street was found alive just yesterday. It seems all eight girls were in the same place. Evie's alive. We just have to find her."

Despite my assurances, she didn't look convinced. "If something had happened to her, we'd have found her body by now." She looked a little happier at this. I could see Sherlock looking significantly at me and John, so I said, "could you excuse us for a second?" And we left to stand in the hall.

"What?" John asked us. "What is it?"

"We've found the connection between all the girls, John," I said. "Now we've just got to figure out who's got them and why."

"What are we missing?" Sherlock muttered. "Evie Wise was kidnapped and put into a basement where she was joined by any girls she'd ever thought of a friends. But why?"

"Revenge? To make a point?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked.

"We'll look at what whoever's got them did to the four we've found already," I said exasperatedly. "What if he made her watch or... Grabbed them in a way that made her fear for her own and the others' safety?"

"It's so... Personal," muttered John.

"What is?" Sherlock and I asked at the same time.

"All her friends. The killer, kidnapper, whatever you want to call them, he went after her friends. Not just her current friends, but every one of them, past and present."

"What are you saying?" I asked but Sherlock had gotten there first.

"Oh..." He breathed, a smile playing on his lips. "John, you are a genius!" He chuckled and spun around. "Past AND present! He knows Evie's whole life story. If this was just about Evie then he would have just watched her at school, seen who she hangs out with and he would've just taken Siobhan, Michelle and Sophie, but no! He had to get personal. This isn't just about Evie. AND it's someone she knew already." My eyes widened.

"Oh..." I said, grinning at the thrill of understanding. Quickly, quietly, we filed back into the kitchen.

"Mrs Wise," said Sherlock loudly. "The sooner you answer these questions, the sooner we can go and find your daughter. We believe whoever has kidnapped your daughter and her friends knows her well or at least knows her well enough to know who her friends are and have been over her life, and that she's obviously compassionate enough that hurting them would hurt her without ever laying a hand on her. Does this sound like anyone you can think of?" Mrs Wise froze. I could see her thinking incredibly quickly.

"Well... But he wouldn't! I mean... My ex boyfriend... Gareth... But he wouldn't do something like that..."

"How long had you been together?" I asked.

"About... Two years. We were going to get married eventually."

"And why did it break up?" Asked John.

"Evie... She convinced me... Gareth had been stealing money from me and... And he would hit me sometimes. But Evie convinced me to leave him. So I did. He didn't like it but he didn't have a chioce."

"I'm going to need a full name and address," said Sherlock quickly. She recited it for us and we left her standing, stunned, in the kitchen.

Sherlock and John ran out of the taxi and to the front door of the flat address we'd been given. John pounded on the door. It was opened by a little old lady.

"Hello?" She asked timidly.

"Hi," said Sherlock pleasantly. "Are you the homeowner?" She nodded, eyes wide. "Good. We need to get into your basement." He pushed past her and entered the house.

"Sherlock-" started John before giving up and following him, apologising to the lady as he did so.

"Why?" She was asking, looking fearfully at the two, rather loud men who had just pushed into the flat. Sherlock had his ear to a door and was concentrating.

"Is this it?" He asked.

"Is this what?"

"The basement? The door to the basement?" Sherlock demanded loudly and sounding frustrated with the woman's slowness. I thought some allowances should be made for extreme old age, but now was not the time to reprimand Sherlock for his lack of etiquette. The woman, however had nodded. Sherlock banged loudly once on the door with a closed fist, using the other hand to hold up one finger, indicating we should be silent. We waited. "We're going to have to get in here," he said.

"Why? I'm going to call the police!" She protested.

"Fine, good, I was considering doing that myself, considering there might be a group of teenaged girls who have been kept in here for the best part of a week."

"What?" The lady breathed.

"Just open the door!" Yelled Sherlock. With quivering hands, the poor old lady unlocked the door and Sherlock raced down the steps, pulling a pocket torch of of his coat as he did so. Heart pounding, I braced myself for what I might find when I got down there and followed.

The cellar was dark; the only light coming from Sherlock and John's torches as they swept the area and the light coming down the stairs.

"There's nothing here," said John finally. I took the torch from him and did a sweep too. Nothing but a few rats and dust.

"You," said Sherlock, rounding on the old lady.

"Do you have a tenant by the name of Gareth Redding?"

"No, he moved out a couple of weeks ago," the old lady replied.

"Where?" Sherlock asked. The lady headed up the stairs, muttering about finding something. We followed. By the time we were back on ground level she had found a piece of paper and was handing it to us.

"It's his forwarding address," she explained. We took it, thanked her and left before she could call the police.

We headed there immediately, not wanting to waste any time. This time, a burly man in his forties answered.

"Mr Redding, I presume," said Sherlock. The guy nodded but he got the same treatment has the old lady. This time, John and I decided to stay in the doorway, just in case Mr Redding decided to make an escape.

"Oi!" The guy was saying. Sherlock ignored him. He headed for the basement door and went to open it. "Hey! Who the hell are you? You can't go in there!"

"Why not?" I asked, crossing my arms in front of my chest and planting my feet.

"This is breaking and entering!"

"I'm not breaking anything," said Sherlock, picking the lock of the door while the guy was distracted.

"Your entering! I'll call the police!"

"I've already done that," said John, holding up his phone so Gareth could see.

"What?! Why?"

"Because you're now a suspect in a murder and abduction inquiry," Sherlock answered impatiently. "So if you don't want to get arrested, OPEN THIS DOOR!" Terrified, Redding opened the door for Sherlock and the detective, wasting no time, was heading down the stairs before the rest of us had fully registered the door had been opened. John followed Sherlock immediately and I could see him pull the torch from his jacket as he descended. Taking a deep breath, I prepared myself for what we might find before following in the boys' wake.

At the bottom of the stairs, the stone walled room was pitch dark. Sherlock and John had obviously decided not to find the light switch as the only thing that I could see while my eyes still adjusted to the light, or lack thereof, was the flash of the torchlights that swept the room.

"Nothing," said John after a few seconds of this. "There's nothing here. Sherlock?"

"No," he agreed.

"We should go," I told the boys pointedly, seeing Gareth sending them a death glare even in the gloom. Sherlock and John took the hint and we left. Another disappointing day.

 _The sound of a struggle alerted her to the Monster's reappearance that... Morning? She couldn't tell anymore. The light from the stairwell that suddenly streamed through the door when it opened was bright enough to blind the three girls who remained in the basement and send them cowering at the far wall. She blinked and used her hand to shade her eyes so she could see. The silhouette in he door way was severely misshapen, the lower left hand part was just hanging limp, like a paralysed limb, and her heart skipped a beat. Michelle was alive! She had been returned to the basement. Although that was nothing to celebrate, it was another friend's life that wouldn't hang on her conscience because of this ordeal. Despite everything, as soon as the monster had left, she smiled shyly and made her way over to the limp form that had been returned to them._

 _"Michelle?" She asked softly, so quiet she could barely hear herself. The mound of girl moved and she hugged her tightly._

 _"Get off me," Michelle mumbled. Hurt, but glad her friend was okay, she pulled away and returned to the other end of the basement._

 _"I'm not going to ask what happened," she announced. "I suppose I'm going to find out very soon now anyway._

 _"He told me," grunted Michelle. "He... Told me what he was going to do to you." She grimaced. "Said he had something special planned. And you know what? I don't care. You bitch," she spat the last word like it tasted awful in her mouth. Alice stayed silent. Katherine shuffled closer to her and she cried._


	14. Chapter 13

**Chapter 15**

The next day, Clara headed to Baker Street early that morning. She knocked, apologised to Mrs Hudson for the early hour and headed upstairs.

"I've made a decision," she announced when she saw Sherlock lying, eyes closed, on the sofa by the wall. He feigned a jerky and unwelcome wake up but Clara knew he hadn't been sleeping.

"Oh? And what is it?" he asked in a bored tone.

"I've decided that we're going to catch this bastard today. No matter what it takes."

"Oh, really? It doesn't work like that," Sherlock said dismissively.

"It does for me. So. What have you figured out since last night?" Sherlock frowned.

"Who says I have anything?" he asked.

"Because you've been up all night turning this puzzle over in your mind and after over twelve hours, you'd at least have some ideas to throw around." Sherlock sneered at her.

"I don't 'throw around ideas'," he growled. She held up her hands in a mock surrender.

"Okay, okay. I take it you don't have anything." Sherlock neither confirmed nor denied the statement. "Well that's okay because I do." Sherlock sat up but remained silent. "We've been so intent on finding a connection, we didn't think to find the killer, kidnapper, whatever."

"That was the Yard's job. They use the normal means to find him, we figure it out a different way," he sounded like a child who was defending a mistake to Clara's ears. Nobody else would have noticed but Clara was very observant and knew his speech patterns well.

"Yeah, well that was our mistake. So today we're going to find this guy."

"What do you propose?"

Just then, John walked in.

"Hi, Clara, I thought Sherlock was talking to someone. I see you keep the same ridiculous hours." Clara smiled up at him.

"John," she said. "If you were confronted with a man who knew how kill someone without leaving a single trace of DNA or other evidence and knows just where to stab a victim so they die very quickly, who would you think they were?" John frowned. After a minute, he glowered.

"MI6 trained maybe? CIA? Something like that." Clara glanced at Sherlock. He didn't seem to be thinking about the case, but he was looking at John as if trying to gauge his reaction to his own theory. John did seem less than impressed, Clara thought.

"Had a bad experience with an MI6 agent?" she asked lightly.

"CIA," Sherlock corrected. "...Probably." Clara looked confusedly between the two. Then, she noticed the wedding band on John's finger.

"Oh. Whoops, sorry. I didn't realise. Is she..." John and Sherlock both looked at her.

"How did you..?" John started.

"Yes. She's alright," Sherlock assured Clara.

"Oh! s _he_ is the agent! I thought..." Clara trailed off at the look she received from John. "Sorry. Never mind."

"So, you were saying?" John asked.

"Hmm?"

"The Case, Clara. Your theory," said Sherlock.

"Oh! Right. Well so yeah... So I'm almost certain that our guy is an agent of some kind - or at least he used to be."

"So, couple that with what he's done to the victims we've found so far - he's obviously playing out some sort of fantasy - and add that to his skill set and we have a forcibly retired intelligence agent with a vendetta against Evie Wise," Sherlock finished.

"Jesus," breathed John.

"Why, though? Why would a retired intelligence agent want revenge on a seventeen year old girl?" Clara asked.

"That's what we need to find out."

Sherlock leaped to his computer and started typing. After a few minutes he was banging his fist against the table in frustration. "I can't get in!" He complained. Then they saw where he was trying to get into: the MI6 secure files. She rolled her eyes.

"Of course they're not going to let you in, you idiot," Clara told him, earning a death glare. "You're going to have to ask nicely for a change."

"Ask who?" he growled.

"Ask Mycroft," said John. Both Clara and Sherlock looked at him in alarm.

"What?" John asked. "I bet he'd be able to wrangle us access at MI6. We don't even know what he really does. Properly, I mean. He's got to have access to places like that."

Sherlock and Clara looked at each other. Mutely, Clara shook her head. It was such a small gesture she was sure John had missed it. Sherlock, she wasn't so sure about but she hoped he didn't read too much in her gaze. Who was she kidding? Of course he would but she had to hope he wouldn't make a big deal about it. To her relief, he seemed to catalog the information for another day and left it at that. Obviously uncomfortable with the idea, but accepting he didn't really have much of a choice, he removed his phone from his pocket and dialed the number.

Mycroft Holmes was talking to a Korean diplomat on a large screen when his phone rang. He quickly closed the conversation -the man was boring anyway - and answered it, none the less annoyed at the interruption.

"Sherlock," he said in an exasperated voice.

"Mycroft," greeted his brother grudgingly.

"What do you need this time?" Mycroft asked, knowing his little brother needed prodding whenever he needed to ask for help, which was exactly what he'd no doubt be doing. He only ever called when he needed something.

"I need to access files on a forcefully retired MI6 agent," Sherlock said, as if even admitting it caused him physical pain.

"And why do you think I'll be able to help you?"

"Don't play this game with me, Mycroft. You know I wouldn't be calling if it wasn't important. Lives are at stake here." Mycroft sighed as if deliberating whether or not to believe his brother.

"What's his name?" he asked finally.

"I... Don't know. There have been some recent killings and the only person who could have committed them had to be intelligence trained. I need to see a list of forcibly retired MI6 agents to see if it's one of them."

"Sherlock, you do realise that all our retired agents are watched closely."

"Oh, Mycroft, you know that doesn't mean they didn't do it. I need. To see. A list."

"I'll get back to you. Tell Lestrade what you think you're dealing with, won't you? He should at least know where to look for the bodies of the three of you when you decided to hunt the killer down alone and work on profiling this agent you think killed these girls - yes, I know what case you're on and frankly, I'm surprised you didn't come to this conclusion sooner. I'll see what I can do." And with that he hung up the phone and sighed. Turning back to his desk, he debated with himself on whether or not he should video call his Korean counterpart back.

"Is he going to help?" asked John when Sherlock ended the call.

"Yes," replied Sherlock, seemingly slightly surprised. "Right now, we've got work to do."

After a few hours, Sherlock received a text.

 **Got what you wanted. Don't get yourselves killed.**

 **MH**

Sherlock then started scrolling through the files he'd received.

"What have we got?" asked Clara. Sherlock didn't answer. There was silence for a few minutes as Clara and John waited for Sherlock to finish. Finally, the detective smiled.

"Got him."

"A Mr Jeremy McCloud," Clara read aloud over Sherlock's shoulder. "Real name Alex Jameson. Forcibly retired in 1997 for several indecent interactions with suspects."

"Okay," said John. "Why him?"

"He's Gareth Redding's father," Sherlock answered.

"Why would he take the girls?" asked John.

"Let's ask him shall we?"

"So... What? We're just going to knock on his door like, "Hey! We were wondering if you were hiding four kidnapped girls in your basement," asked John. The three of them were sitting in the back of the cab. Clara was watching the world pass by. She was fidgeting in her seat but her face gave nothing away.

"That's what we did for the other one," she replied to John's question. "We don't know if it's him or not."

"Come on," said John. "Seriously?"

"Let's just... See how it goes," suggested Clara.

"I'm calling Lestrade," said John, fishing for his phone in his jacket.

"Done already," Sherlock interrupted. John stopped but looked suspiciously at him.

"Okay."

 _There was nothing between her and the Monster now. All her friends had been broken in front of her. Now it was her turn. She listened, ears more alert than she had thought possible, for any and every drip, shuffle or creak that was out of place. The suspense was killing her more surely than he ever could. It was almost a relief when she heard the first footstep come down the stairs. Almost. At least she hoped her friends would be safe now._

 _Shaking like a leaf, but standing to meet him all the same, she stumbled towards the door, turning to face the girls left huddled in the gloom. The door opened and her shadow leaped in front of her, surrounded by a square of brilliant light. She gulped._

 _"I'm so sorry," she said, before being grabbed from behind with a scream._


	15. Chapter 14

**Chapter 16**

He dragged her up the stairs away from the basement to a room lit by so much artificial light that she was momentarily disoriented by the contrast it created to the unlit basement.

He pushed her to the floor, throwing something over her. A purple cocktail dress. She heard a grunting and shuffling around the room, but in her dazed state, the noise didn't really register.

"Put it on," he ordered. It was the first time she'd heard his voice and it rooted her to the floor. He wasn't a monster. His voice was soft, intelligent, sophisticated. It terrified her even more, causing her heart to stop it's frenzied beating.

Her eyes were adjusting to the light and she was now able to make out finer details of the room and the man holding her captive. She could see every tiny crease in his polished leather shoes, every stray thread on the cuffs of his pressed black pants. If she strained here eyes upward, she saw the silhouette of a curly head haloed by the light hanging from the ceiling. The face changed shape and she saw a flash of white teeth.

"Evie Wise, I presume then," he said. "Sherlock Holmes, don't worry. We're here to help."

30 minutes earlier...

"Okay," John said suspiciously. The taxi stopped at a set of traffic lights.

"Pull over," Sherlock ordered suddenly. The taxi obeyed.

"What did you see?" Clara asked immediately, leaning further towards him so she could see past him out the window. Sherlock ignored her, indicating they should be quiet with a casual wave of his hand.

A dark figure, hunched against the cool night air glanced either side of the road, opened a door and dissapeared through. There was a minute of silence.

Finally and without a word, Sherlock unfolded himself from the car and crossed the street.

When John and Clara joined him he got down to business.

"John, Clara. You two secure all the exits. Don't let him escape. I'll go in and find the basement door. When you're finished, text me everywhere you've found and then come in through the front door. If I'm right, you won't meet any resistance until you join me." Clara nodded. John answered by pulling a handgun from his waistband. Sherlock turned and left without another word, heading for the front door.

Five minutes later, Sherlock, John and Clara were all standing beside the door to the basement of the house. They were standing in a small, but lavishly furnished room full of love seats, comfy chairs and a changing screen with intricate designs on them.

"He's already gone down," Sherlock whispered. On cue, a muffled scream sounded from below. Clara could barely hear it from where she was, standing beside the door. Sherlock indicated silently that they should back away and find somewhere to hide. Clara chose behind the screen, which was closest to her. John joined her there.

The door opened and a loud struggle entered the room, making Clara's heart stop.

 _Do something, Sherlock!_

Directly in front of her, but on the other side of the screen, something was dropped to the floor. There was another struggle, this one sounded different and caused John to leap up.

"Here," he said, and handed her the gun. He got up and left. Clara crept out from her hiding place in time to see John push a man against the wall. Clara placed the barrel of the gun on the man's forehead, over John's shoulder.

"Don't. Move."

Sherlock was talking.

"Evie Wise, I presume." Clara glanced over her shoulder at the scene; a thin, pale girl lying on the floor, paralysed with fear, Sherlock standing over her with an air of triumph that came with finishing a case.

"Nice try, lady," came a voice in her ear as something hard connected with the side of her head, forcing her back, onto the floor and causing her to drop the gun. John was also on the floor, but reflexes honed from years of living with Sherlock meant he was on his feet before she had time to fully comprehend what was happening. Sherlock and Jameson were already out the door.

"Call Lestrade," John told her as he left, tossing her his phone. "Speed dial two." She fumbled for the phone and did as she was told.

"John? What's happening?" He answered after the third ring.

"You need to get over here now," Clara said. "We found the girls and the guy who had them. I'm still in the house but the guy is on the run and armed, I think. Sherlock and John are already in pursuit."

"Jesus. Whatever you do, stay there. I don't need another civilian mixed up in this."

"Just get over here!" Clara told him and hung up. She then turned her attention to the girl on the floor.


	16. Chapter 15

**Chapter 17**

Evie was still on the floor, trembling and crying silently.

"Hey, it's okay," Clara said softly. "He can't get you anymore and the police are on their way." The girl sobbed, louder this time. Clara stood, decided she wasn't going to get through to the girl and tried the basement door. It was unlocked and she opened it easily. A scrambling was heard as the door opened and she almost laughed in relief. The rest were still alive, then.

"Hello?" She asked quietly. "Katherine? Alice? Michelle?"

Silence. "My name is Clara. I'm going to get you out of here. The police are on their way."

A strangled sob from the corner of the room.

"Can you all walk?"

"I... I think so," came one quiet voice.

"Good. The man who as holding you captive isn't here. He's being chased down by my friends and the police hopefully-"

"This is the police! Hello? Clara? CRIKEY!" Clara smiled, a flash of white teeth in the dark.

"That'll be Lestrade. Come on."

Clara went back up the stairs and called Sherlock as uniformed men with flashlights swarmed down into the basement.

"Clara, are you alright?"

"John! Where are you? Where's Sherlock?"

"Uh..." There was the faint sound of a fist fight going on in the back ground. "Busy," John finished. Clara grinned.

"Have you got him?" she asked eagerly. A pause.

"Just about."

"Where are you?"

Ten blocks south of where you are," John replied. "Is Lestrade there yet?"

"Yeah, got here a couple of minutes ago."

"Good. Stay there." Clara laughed.

"Not a chance."

Clara stepped out of the taxi cab and ran down the alley where she could hear the muffled sounds of a fight still going on in the dark.

Both John and Sherlock were fighting Jameson now. The man had an impressive stamina and it was slowly wearing the other two down. With a final push, Jameson threw Sherlock off him, his stumble causing John to fall to the ground.

Clara didn't have time to think. She sped after the man, following him as he disappeared around a corner. John called after her but she ignored him. Even after the fight and the chase Jameson was fast and getting away. She was going to lose him.

A gunshot split the night air.

Jameson fell, blood steaming down his ankle where the bullet hit him, rendering it useless. Sherlock and John pushed past Clara and tackled the guy, ensuring he won't be getting up in a hurry. Clara threw the gun to the side, shaking. She had never fired a gun before and it left her ears ringing and her hands trembling. She pulled John's phone out of her pocket.

"Hey, Greg. You better get over here now. We've got him."


	17. Chapter 16

**Chapter 18**

Her heart was still racing with the adrenaline of the chase. The killer was in custody - the right guy this time - and there had been no more deaths. The surviving girls would have months, possibly years of therapy to get over the past week but they would live. Clara was feeling very pleased with herself and the team working on the case. It was after the adrenaline started to wear off she started to get bored. Her thoughts started drifting to her project, her own private investigation. She looked at Sherlock who was in the taxi beside her and wondered what the truth would do to him. Unfortunately, he noticed her staring.

"What are you hiding, Clara?" he asked. Taken by surprise, she lied.

"Nothing," she said airily. Bad move.

"Shouldn't you have learned by now that I can tell when you're lying?" he pressed. "Who is following you?"

"Am I still being followed?" she asked. She hadn't continued her investigation since her meeting with Mycroft. No doubt the elder Holmes brother would know that, so why was she still being followed?

"Don't insult my intelligence, Clara, it makes you look like an idiot."

"Haven't you figured it out yet?" she asked cryptically.

"So you do know," was all he said in reply. She said nothing. "I want to know why my brother has taken an interest in you," he continued, looking at her pointedly.

"Same reason you did, I suppose," she replied.

"But that's not true. It's something to do with the library visit you took on our first case. He thinks you're up to something."

"I was. I'm not anymore," she told him, noticing the cabbie's posture change from slouched to alert. She could almost see his ears straining to catch more of their conversation. Before Sherlock had a chance to question her further, she had told the cabbie to stop the car and gotten out. Sherlock and John followed wordlessly and the cabbie drove off.

"What's going on Clara?" John asked. "We're not even halfway back to Baker Street yet!"

"Sherlock forced my hand!" Clara complained. The detective said nothing.

"Sherlock, what did you do?" John asked. "Hey!" he yelled as Clara began walking away. "Clara, what's going on?"

"Just shut up! Shut up! Both of you! Turn around and walk away and don't ask me again!" Sherlock and John stared at her. She was now pacing, hands deep in her pockets to stop them from freezing. She kept glancing up at the traffic lights a short distance away and the security cameras on the buildings behind her. "Please," she begged. "I need him to see you walk away and go back to Baker Street without me. I'll explain to him what happened and we can go back to normal."

"Normal?!" John was seriously worried now. Sherlock, however started laughing.

"Mycroft!" He yelled to the security camera at the top of the building. "Stop harassing her!"

"Sherlock, don't!"

"What has he threatened you with?" Sherlock asked in a low voice, walking closer to Clara. "Exile? Imprisonment?" She shook her head. "What, then?" he demanded. She just stared up at him, eyes telling him all he needed to know.

"Oh, Clara. What have you gotten yourself into?" he breathed.

"What is it?" John asked. "What's wrong?"

"Please, just go," Clara begged.

"Clara, listen," Sherlock said, thinking quickly. "He can't actually do that without consequences. He's not God."

"Oh, Sherlock," Clara sighed, tears springing in her eyes now. "You have no idea. He's not what you think. Please. I really wanted to tell you once I figured out what happened but some of it still doesn't make sense and what does... It's scary. _He's_ scary. You have no idea what he's capable of." Sherlock gave a derisive laugh.

"He's my brother, Clara. I grew up with him. If anyone knows what he's capable of, it's me." She shook her head.

"Is that what _he_ thought?"

"Who?" John asked.

"I don't know what you're talking about," said Sherlock, his voice taking on a totally different tone than just before.

"But you understand," she choked. She glanced up at the camera again and headed towards the building, taking an emergency flight of stairs until she reached the roof. She sat down on the edge, working on getting her breathing under control.

"Please! Just leave!" she cried when she saw Sherlock had followed her up. "Where's John?"

"He stayed down on the street."

"Does he still trust you on tall buildings?" Clara asked with a slight, but teary chuckle. Sherlock laughed too.

"He can be a moron sometimes," he admitted. Then his face lost it's temporary joy. "Clara, let me help you. Let us help you."

"You'd help me by leaving me alone," she repeated. "Seriously. Give me time to explain to Mycroft."

"He won't like it. Not now. You left the place where he could see you. Now he'll be on the defensive so _tell me_ ," Sherlock pressed.

"I can't. He'll kill me."

"No he won't. It's too big a risk."

"Not as big as the one he's taking right now by letting me live. I know things, Sherlock. Things that would hurt you. Things that would change you," she sighed.

He turned angry. "You have no right to keep it from me then!"

"I told you!" she screamed, just as something red flashed in front of her eyes. Sherlock froze, eyes wide in terror, staring at Clara like she'd just been given a death sentence.

"Don't. Move," he growled. "Don't. Speak." He was pulling out his mobile phone and dialing a number at what seemed like inhuman speed. He held out a hand to prevent her from asking what was going on. He put the phone to his ear after a few tense seconds he spoke, putting the phone on speaker. "Mycroft, this is ridiculous!" He said.

"What is, little brother?" Mycroft's silky voice was neutral, giving nothing away.

"Come on, murdering a girl because she knows something is not your style," Sherlock said flippantly. Clara whimpered at the word _murder_.

"Who said anything about murder?" Mycroft asked.

"You did apparently," Sherlock answered, still sounding casual.

"I... May have used a few choice words," Mycroft said carefully. "But you of all people, Sherlock, should know that I would never do such a thing."

"Then tell me, _brother_ , why has she got laser sighting aimed between her eyes?"

"What?"

"Seriously, a little red dot trained on her forehead," Sherlock said, almost laughing. He was really damn good at not caring, Clara thought bitterly.

"Sherlock," said Mycroft suddenly deadly serious. "That isn't me. I didn't order any such action." Sherlock's reaction told Clara that he believed his brother for once. His tone lowered and his eyes grew cold.

"Say that again."

"I didn't order her to be shot. Why would I?" Mycroft repeated. "This is someone else."

"Who?" Sherlock demanded, now yelling into the mouthpiece of his phone.

"Why should I know?" Mycroft sounded incredulous. Sherlock ended the call before he could answer.

"Clara," he said seriously, his face showing true fear for her now. "Listen to me: don't move or speak or do anything. This isn't Mycroft. Someone else wants you dead because of what you know so don't give them a reason for them to react. They're just waiting for you to do something to set them off - otherwise you'd be dead already. I'm calling John. He'll be able to get back up. Maybe disable the gunman on the roof of the building over there. Just stay put," he said all this while dialing another number and turning to look over the street to the building opposite. "John!" he said after a pause. "Yeah, listen. Clara's got a sniper trained on her so I need you to go and sort it out."

The phone wasn't on speaker this time, but the volume of John's response was loud enough for her to make out the words, "For Christ's sake, Sherlock!" amongst the babble coming from the other end of the line. He turned back to Clara.

"You alright? Don't answer that," he was hitting his forehead muttering, "Think! Think!" which was making her even more nervous.

She was desperate. She needed to tell him. The truth. Even if it killed her. It was so important. Steeling her courage, fully aware of his warnings about moving or speaking, she said quietly, moving her lips as little as humanly possible, "Sherlock."

He stopped moving. "Are you insane? Shut up!"

"No, please, you need to know," she said, still not moving more than she could help. She was starting to feel stiff and was losing feeling in her limbs. Heart pounding, she looked him straight in the eye. "I came to you with that case because I hoped I'd be able to understand."

"Understand what?" he asked, forgetting the danger for a second.

"About you. Your family. Your past. I came all the way from America to find out more."

"Why? What could possibly be worth that?"

"In America, I was doing some digging for a story and found some records that had been buried deep in the archives. They caught my eye because they were only fifteen years old," she said, struggling to keep her face still while she talked. "The names sounded familiar. Then I realised it's because I'd heard them before. When my mum would talk about the current events in London. You were in the newspapers." Sherlock turned away from her, wondering why John was taking so long.

"Why did you need to come and find out more, though?" He asked. "What was it you found?" Clara's arm twitched. She focused on telling Sherlock what he needed to know.

"It's like I said about the case I brought you," she said. "Something didn't add up. I... can't stay still for much longer."

"It's okay, John will sort out the sniper soon. What did you find?" Clara's face was cramping. She could feel the muscles in her cheek straining to move properly. With a sudden and unwavering new certainty, Clara knew something had happened to prevent John from coming to her rescue. She couldn't keep this up much longer. She was going to break with the strain very soon and it would be the death of her. Stealing her resolve, she looked Sherlock straight in the eye again. "All the information you need is in my hotel room. Get to it before forensics do otherwise you'll never see it." He stepped closer, opening his mouth to say something. "Stop," she ordered, half her concentration going to the muscles in her face. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I should have told you before Mycroft got to me. Then all of this would never have happened. I just wanted to make sure before I ruined the relationships you had with your brothers."

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked, his voice lowering a few octaves. He looked wounded. Clara's last thought was that she hoped the truth wouldn't kill him. She took a deep breath, reaching an arm out as if to comfort the man. "I'm sorry, Sher-" a gunshot sounded, the bullet impacted with Clara's head and she crumpled to the ground in a heap, eyes open, but unseeing.


	18. Epilogue

**Epilogue**

 _Where could it be?_ Sherlock wondered, searching around the empty hotel room. He needed to know, he needed to see the truth. All this time, she had been lying to him and he'd had no idea? Why hadn't he seen it? Was it emotion? He'd never noticed any particular feeling arise from him in response to Clara Lane. No, that mustn't be the reason. She was clever, he could see that. Not as good as he was but she had been promising.

He stepped back into the middle of the room and scanned every inch with his eyes. She must have documents somewhere. A laptop or a notepad. Even with a "nearly eidetic memory" she'd have to write it all down somewhere. She was a journalist so she would most likely write in shorthand which means pen and paper but where? He swivelled slowly on his heel, scanning the room again and he saw something. One of the drawers on her nightstand was slightly more open than the others. He walked towards it, leaping the corner of the queen sized bed in his haste. He was still in shock, the shot that had killed her ringing in his ears, but he had to know now.

He pulled the drawer open and removed the contents. There wasn't much, just two folders. The file she had brought to Baker Street concerning the case she had brought to him and John was on top. He flicked through it but there was nothing in there he hadn't already seen. Underneath that was another manila folder with 'Private property of Clara Lane' written on it. He made to open it, but John's voice caused him to pause.

"Why, Sherlock?" he asked quietly. "Please, have a little respect. She's dead for Christ's sake. You don't... You shouldn't..."

"Don't you see I don't have a choice?" Sherlock demanded. "I need to know what she wanted. I need to know why she came to us." He opened the folder. Inside was a black spiral bound notebook. The first page was was marked _Case Diary: Sherlock Holmes_. He took it out of the folder and opened it. Underneath the notebook, sat a clear file full of nearly twenty year old newspaper cuttings.

Sherlock put the cuttings to the side and flicked to the first entry of the Case Diary and began to read aloud: _"After the meeting in which Sherlock Holmes agreed to take my case, I walked out into the crisp London air. It was colder than I was used to for this time of year..."_

"I don't understand. Everything in here we already know. What is it she wanted?" Sherlock mumbled. An hour later, he was still as desperate for answers as before. He turned to the newspaper cuttings to which he hadn't given much thought to before and read the first headline. John had left some time ago, which meant he didn't see Sherlock's face go resolutely blank when the words reached his brain. All the newspapers were American and the first one read, _"MI6 Agent Found Dead."_

 _"One of MI6's most decorated agents still serving was found dead under suspicious circumstances in an abandoned Manhattan flat two days ago. 27 year old Ashmore Holmes (pictured right) was shot 'execution style' on Monday evening. Although no official was willing to comment on his death, sources say that it was not the usual danger that comes with working the field._

 _"None of the usual precautions were taken when going into the field and he was supposed to be on the other side of New York when he was killed."_

 _"Continued page 4..."_

So that was the answer. She was investigating Ash.


	19. AN: To all my lovely readers

**Author's Note**

Well, that's it for A Study in Reason. If you read the whole thing, _thank you so much_ for your support!

I wasn't sure how the ending was going to be received and would still love your feedback if you have it but I'm here to tell you that there is a sequel in the works! I already announced it on my tumblr page thepowerofwordscompellsme, but I realised I hadn't told this community so here it is.

* * *

 **Coming soon:** Her Last Word (Sequel to "A Study in Reason")

Two mysteries. Three brothers. The secret that changed their lives forever.

Clara Lane is dead. Shot on a rooftop to buy her silence, the question of who murdered her drives Sherlock down the rocky road of his past as he fights to uncover the secret she took to the grave. His only clue is a fifteen year old cold case steeped in family history and the secret world of British espionage, but one question keeps returning; what is the connection between the deaths of Clara Lane and Ashmore Holmes?

 _And what does it have to do with Mycroft?_

* * *

So there you have it folks. Clara's story is not quite done - and Sherlock's is only just beginning.

I'm still working on Her Last Word and reviews on this story would make me work faster ;) (just saying!)

Love you all,

May.


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